


run with the hare and hunt with the hounds

by flibblesd



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels Are Known, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Fluff, Hurt Castiel, Hurt Dean Winchester, M/M, Protective Castiel, Protective Sam Winchester, Slow Build, Violence, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 08:35:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 56,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1104710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flibblesd/pseuds/flibblesd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is fascinated by the angels. Unlike the other hunters, he'd much rather study them than chop off their wings, find out what makes them tick, where they came from, why they can't talk. Or at least, he thought they couldn't talk. When Dean is brought back to camp, comatose from an angel getting inside his head, Sam sets off to find the one that did it. The last thing he expects is to find it saving his life, tilting its head with narrowed blue eyes, and saying, "Sammy?"</p><p> [M rating for violence]</p>
            </blockquote>





	run with the hare and hunt with the hounds

**Author's Note:**

> My very first big bang, oh man. A giant thank you to my artist Jay for not only making [GORGEOUS ART](http://she-llama.livejournal.com/874.html) but defeating the frightening armada of technology that tried to stop her from doing so. Thanks to Cait for betaing at the last second without complaints, and to the Sastiel Big Bang mods for making it all happen, I never would have finished something this huge if you guys hadn't given me the opportunity!
> 
> and aLSO please check out (and favorite and love and comment on) [this amazing fanart](http://midnightstarfire.deviantart.com/art/AU-Castiel-441735278) that the lovely astrivikia drew for this fic!!! IT'S LOVELY AND I'M SO HAPPY.

~

The humans had killed Uriel. He had known that preying on their watchmen would make them angry, he had tried to tell Uriel as much. But Uriel had always been very stubborn and had sounded so sure. _Salvage_ , he’d said, _is where we need to be._ Uriel left no room for disagreement.

“Come and get it, you feathery bastard!” the human who had followed him shouted. He didn’t understand anything that came out of humans’ mouths. They spoke in an unfamiliar tongue. Oh, he understood some words. But others were perplexing. Uriel had always told him that he thought too much about things that didn’t matter.

There he was, curled behind a thick tree trunk, clutching his injured right wing tight against his body, and tilting his head at the human’s vocabulary choice. He had never been called a ‘feathery bastard’ before. He wondered what it meant as he stroked the bleeding gash on the upper arch of his wing with a hiss of pain.

“I know you’re hiding! I got your wing, you ain’t flying anywhere!” the human continued to yell out what it must think were taunting statements, as it stampeded through the underbrush. He could just imagine it waving around its blade carelessly like an animal. But it was right, the human had managed to slash the useful tendons in his wing and render it unserviceable with its knife. He wasn’t flying anytime soon, so his only hope was to Save the man before it managed to kill him.

The human was growing steadily closer, and he could hear a slight stutter in its gait. A limp. He had caused that when he grabbed the human’s ankle and wrenched it the wrong way. He may not have all the fancy weaponry that humans possessed, but he was blessed with strength that proved useful when he didn’t want to kill a human. No, he had to Save it. For Uriel, if nothing else.

Despite his injured wing, he managed to awkwardly maneuver himself on to a higher branch in the large tree. His only hope was that the human wouldn’t notice him hiding up there until it was too late. He had to retract his wings as closely to his back as possible, even with the sky almost entirely dark, their black feathers could still manage to catch what little light was left.

“Fuck, where are you?” the human murmured in a hushed tone and walked right underneath his hiding place. He had to do it now. Like a shadow, he descended from the tree in a whoosh of air and sent the human falling to the dirt. He was on top of it in an instant, pinning the human down and ripping the blade out of its hand. It groaned as if in pain and then proved itself to be much stronger than he had anticipated, twisting its arm free and yanking on his injured wing.

He cried out and the human used its leverage to flip their positions. Now the human had him pinned, crushing the tail of his hurt wing underneath him. “Gotcha,” it said, mouth tugging up at the corner, smug. Then it blinked one of its eyes in a gesture that he thought maybe he had seen before. It must have been some form of expression as well, but he couldn’t be sure.

The human made the costly mistake of taking its hand off of his bloody wing to reach for another weapon, and he immediately took advantage of the oversight. He threw up his right wing in a flash of movement that caught the human’s attention, temporarily diverting it away from him. It gave him the small opening he was looking for and he raised his left fist, slamming it into the human’s soft spot. With his added strength, enough to stun it without killing it, the human simply collapsed to the side in a tangled mess of limbs.

There wasn’t much time before it would regain itself and he pushed the dull throbbing ache in his wing away as he got to his feet. Patting its unmoving body down, he found a handgun in a thigh holster and tossed it into the undergrowth. Upon further inspection, it also kept a knife at its ankle—something all of these, so called, hunters seemed prone to do—and he also made quick work of it, shoving the blade into the pocket of his pants. Human weapons had proven themselves useful before when brute strength wasn’t enough.

The human let out a grunt of confusion as he disarmed it, gradually coming to cognizance with gentle spasms. He had to Save the human now or he’d never get the chance again. His hands fisted in the collar of its top layer of clothing, dragging it up to its knees. It clutched at the material of his waist, scrabbling for something to keep it upright, in the undoubtedly disorienting shift. Inhaling deeply through his mouth, he placed his hands on either side of the human’s face, thumbs pushing up under its jaw. The contact elicited a bright glow from his palms, lighting up the man’s skin and making the flecks of discolored skin across its cheeks stand out (he thought they might be called freckles).

The human’s eyes burst open, an impossible green in the light from his hands and he found himself staring curiously into them before they rolled back and were white. Humans often went into a fugue-like state when he did this, its hands falling slack at its sides. His arms trembled with the righteous power that pushed through his veins and he closed his own eyes as he began.

Saving a human was something very difficult for him to properly describe. It helped him if he pictured a never ending body of water—a lake, because it was still and calm. Nothing broke the surface and the water was so clear that it reflected the sky and himself back. This body of water, this lake, was the human’s memory, their essence, their very being. He, as a creature of his status, was tasked with removing the impure memories and thoughts and actions from this lake. But he didn’t know which drops were pure and which were not, so he simply strained the lake through his fingers and collected any beads that clung to his skin.

He did this to the human now, running his hand gently through its soul and pulling out bits and pieces with each tender touch. Every small thing that he took from the human, he took into himself. He experienced it all through the rich, vivid eyes of the original owner.

He saw bad things. Things like a woman (a mother) being taken in by one of his kind. He felt the fear and terror that the human felt at the sight and then the gaping empty wound that the mother’s loss left behind. He saw the human kill another of his kind who was also its friend, a young girl. He felt the responsibility of losing that friend and the grief, but underneath that there was also relief. He frowned at this feeling and strained for the rest of that piece. When he found it, he almost jerked back with how strong the human’s life lashed back at him.

The human had killed the friend to save someone. To save another human, a child, a baby brother, a— _Sammy_ the soul shouted up at him. The lake rippled at the name, lighting up with millions of tiny drops beneath the surface. They illuminated the water like stars in the night sky. He felt his breath steal away at the sight and he quickly sifted his hand through again, desperate to catch more drops of this Sammy, this precious thing that sent the human’s soul alight with vibrant colors. He wanted to feel more, to experience it. He pulled out memory upon action upon thought and found his face smiling with each SammySammySammy and scowling with anything that wasn’t this bright eyed human with the toothy grin.

 _Sam needs to get that stick outta his ass_ ran down his little finger. _I’m teachin’ Sammy how to shoot_ stuck in the webbing at the base of his thumb. _Sammy’s first word is Dee_ pooled in the cup of his palm next to _Sam’s getting taller than me_. He found himself straining the lake again and again, fishing for more memories and more Sam. The human was enamored, so completely wrapped up in Sam that its entire soul quivered with it. He had never Saved a human like this one, had never seen something like this and he wanted it. He wanted all of it inside himself, to keep with him long after this soul leaves, to remember this feeling in his chest. To keep Sammy forever.

The sound of a gunshot ripped him back into consciousness just in time to see a bullet firing past his ear. He gasped for air as if resurfacing from beneath the ocean, lungs heavy with need. Human weapons meant other humans were coming to save their own. He had to leave but he wouldn’t get far, not with an injured wing. Running was the only option for survival, his only hope lie in the pursuants very human concern for their own, something that might gain him enough time to hide.

He heard shouts and footsteps growing closer. The human slipped from his fingers and its body fell to the side without a sound. There was no definitive way of knowing how a partial Savior would affect the human’s mind, for its sake he hoped it would not be painful. He drew the knife from his pocket and broke through the line of foliage just as another gunshot sounded and a bullet zipped across his shoulder flesh.

Wincing at the sharp burn and then subsequent numbness sparking across his nerve endings, he held the blade close and dashed blindly through the forest trees. It was by pure luck that he didn’t collide with anything solid in his frenzied state, his wings clutched as tight as possible to his back. His human heart, in his human body, beat thick and loud in its cavity and perspiration rolled down his skin, clammy and cool. He still never quite understood taking a human body as a vessel, in some ways it was empowering and in others it was deafening, blinding, weakening.

He was frantic, the voices of the humans had faded from shouts to nothing, footsteps inaudible, but the sense of persecution still clung tightly to him like a second skin. The humans would get him, could get him in this state, and he would die. They would cut off his wings, the way they did to all of his kind, maybe saw them right off or even shoot them from his back at the stem with their double-barrelled shotguns--a thing that he had only heard about. The breath in his lungs dragged through across his trachea, cloying and thick with night moisture, he was gasping.

He couldn’t think properly, fear and stark desperation made him hazy, his vision blackening with each pump of his heart. It was almost unsurprising that his foot eventually found nothing beneath it and he was falling. His heel scraped viciously into the cliff wall, frail skin tearing, and he tumbled forward with the force of it. He heard the telling sound of a hollow bone snapping when his wings instinctively wrapped around him, sustaining most of the impact with the ground.

Hot pain shot through his nerves and down his spine, sending shockwaves that had him in momentary convulsions. It was broken, there was no doubt, more than likely cracked in two at the humerus. The same wing that had had shredded tendons from the human’s knife--Dean's knife, his mind supplied uselessly. He was prone on the grass, tree roots and rocks digging discolorations into the bare skin of his torso.

He could hardly move, aside from his body’s involuntary spasms, and his teeth bit into his lip to keep from making any noise with his human throat. Even harder still was suppressing the creature inside of him, the sound of his kind rang in his mind, a mix of Enochian and a tonal plane that made humans’ ears bleed. It would undoubtedly signal to any living thing within a radius of miles not only his location, but his vulnerability.

He lay there, half on his side, for an indeterminate amount of time, waiting with his forehead on the cool grass for the pain to subside. He knew somewhere amidst all the throbbing points of sharp agony across his flesh, that the humans (however many there were) would soon find him there, spread out, defenseless, an easy target. They would put him down. He had to get somewhere safe, at least out of the way.

The tremors that wracked his frame gradually faded, but the pain dulled little. It was enough so that he could prop himself up on his forearms, of course, the movement brought with it a fresh wave of torture that had his feathers fluffing out. That, in turn, caused the broken wing to shift and he couldn’t help the groan that escaped past his gritted teeth. This was going to be hell and he couldn’t help but wonder just what--what could possibly have been so vital--had gotten him into this mess.

Uriel. Uriel and his unexplained fascination with Salvage. _Castiel_ , Uriel had said, using the name he had given to him, _this camp, this human safe haven is where she will be._ Castiel still didn’t understand who he was referring to or why she was important, whoever she might be. Castiel had been Borne mere months ago, still new to this place and this body and these humans. It shouldn’t come as a shock to him that he would very likely die before the sun rose again.

He was naive, Uriel always had told him. Naive and weak and he thought too much. About things that didn’t matter. Castiel had replied quite surely, _I think it is my human’s fault. He thought too much when he was alive._ He was positive of this, because he still had Jimmy Novak’s memories, his thoughts, his emotions tucked away in the back of his depthless mind. Uriel’s gaze then had been condescending, almost affronted, almost sick.

 _That is what is wrong with you, Castiel. It was not_ your _human, it was_ a _human. And now it is dead. It was dead the moment you took its body and it is insignificant._

Castiel remembered frowning. That was not true, how could it be when Jimmy Novak was wrapped in every ephemeral flash of his life, wound tightly into every thought, his very essence roped around those he touched, those he loved? Jimmy Novak was not insignificant. But Castiel didn’t say that.

And he didn’t say anything now, curled in on himself. His unbroken wing worked in vain to cover him in black feathers and hide him from danger. Danger posed by humans, by creatures that could kill him without a moment’s hesitation, creatures with human emotions, human memories, human love.

He found his wayward mind straining the pool inside of him, the one filled with the beautiful souls of humans, for something--anything--to take away the fear. He gathered the dripping essence of a very specific man, what little he had managed to keep. The memories, the feelings, coalesced into a surprisingly overwhelming calm. It settled his heart, filled his cold veins with warmth, set his wings fluttering with a twinge, and a voice (deep with fondness) said _Shut up Dean._ And Castiel shook but it wasn’t from the pain.

Creatures that held this much power could not possibly be insignificant.

~

 

Sam never quite got used to the dead eyes staring blankly at him. The pupils that held nothing in their depths, no more than black holes surrounded by a cloudy iris, no recognition, no understanding, no sign of life.

“You did good, Isaac,” he said with his customary, dimpled grin. The former hunter in the padded wheelchair didn’t so much as twitch in acknowledgement, his mouth hanging open as it often did. A shiny dabble of spit shined on his lower lip and Sam slid his pen behind his ear so he could lift a rag to wipe it away.

The task done, he returned his attention to the leather-bound journal in his hand. Bobby had finally handed it over when he’d caught Sam sneaking off with it for the seventh time. The word _Purification_ was scrawled across the spine in black permanent marker and its pages were filled up with all the information Bobby had managed to gather on the process humans had named. It was a study thirty years in the making, chock full of firsthand experiences and stories told from reliable survivors throughout the years.

Purification was a complex and not completely understandable idea. But the watered down explanation of it that Sam’s father was fond of giving out went a little like this: an angel sticks its glowing hands on your face and then you’re brain dead. The end. Sam was utterly fascinated with the process as a whole. What exactly did the angels trigger in the human brain to render it practically worthless through nothing but their hands? He wanted to find out.

He’d read the Purification journal cover to cover more times than he could count, had every fact and figure memorized. Every sob story a survivor had come stumbling in with permanently stowed away in his head for constant overview. Most notably Bobby’s wife, Karen Singer, who Sam had never met. Bobby didn’t talk about her and her Purification was only lightly touched on in the journal but Sam could imagine the pain that it must have caused, could sometimes see it in Bobby’s face.

Sam had never lost a loved one to Purification fortunately. He was told by a very reluctant Dean that their mom had gotten Taken, not Purified, when the angels first descended. Sam had been a baby then, had never known a life outside of the apocalypse, as the religiously inclined called it. Dad just called it Hell.

In Sam’s opinion, being Taken was far worse than being brain dead for the rest of your life. See, angels were metaphysical creatures, unseen and unheard, until they Took a human body as a host of sorts. Sam had only ever seen it happen once. He was thirteen. Her name was Anna Milton. She was a cute girl, a little older than Dean at the time. One moment she was smiling and talking to him, the next she was screaming with bright light shining through her face. And then the wings.

It didn’t seem physically possible, but when a human got Taken, they sprouted a pair of monstrous feathery wings from their backs. The appendages tore through the skin, soaking red with gore, and carried a hefty wingspan as large as fifteen feet. Sam could still hear the screeching—almost inhuman—and the wet slick of flesh ripping as they grew up and out. They were white, Anna’s wings, or they would have been had they not been dripping with blood. He remembered the feathers shivering and quaking to free chunks of body tissue, viscous plasma dribbling down.

Anna Milton had tried to kill him after that. Dean had stopped her. Sometimes Sam still had nightmares, but he’d mostly put the entire incident away. He felt worse for Dean who’d had a thing for her. Her loss had been hard on him, but in the way that every loss was hard on him. Which was why Dean tended to be so brash when it came to killing angels, something Sam hadn’t manage to inherit.

It was no secret John Winchester hated angels. Where Bobby had journals covering all conceivable facets to the creatures, John had one. He had one journal filled to bursting with only one phrase scrawled across the front: _How To Kill It._ Sam figured that about summed the man up. And Dean too, unfortunately. Both members of Sam’s family were the ‘shoot first, ask questions never’ type of hunters, and it wasn’t like he blamed them for it, he just distanced himself from the whole thing.

Sometimes, his family’s willful slaughtering of angels by the dozens without question made Sam’s stomach churn. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone but Dean (and only after years of prodding) that just once he’d like to capture an angel instead of chopping its wings off. Capture one and question it, study it— _learn its weak spots?_ Dean would ask with a hopeful grin. _Learn its origin_ , Sam would correct. There was so much they didn’t know about angels, so much knowledge they could gain if everyone would just stop to find out before pulling the trigger.

Like how angels couldn’t talk. A fact that had baffled Sam ever since John had told him as a child. They were silent creatures, hardly even screamed when they got their wings sawed off. Sam didn’t understand it because he’d looked into an angel’s eyes before. He’d seen the pupils contract with fear and adrenaline, a reaction typical of any animal, and he’d seen the dawning realization on its face, the acceptance of its inevitable death (human responses). He’d seen one stare down the length of his .45 in defiance. Angels had to have some semblance of intelligence to look like that, didn’t they? And yet not a single one had ever attempted any type of communication. God, Sam could fill his own journal on speculation alone.

Not that he’d ever let Dean or Dad see it if he did. Dad would tear it up or throw it in a bonfire in the middle of Fort Salvage, and Dean—he’d do that heartbroken, wet eyed thing he did whenever something was threatening his idea of a happy family. As a teenager, that was often Sam.

The painfully stark differences between what Sam wanted and what the rest of his family wanted were actually what led to his current preoccupation with Isaac. Isaac was a damn good hunter up until about a week ago. Fort Salvage, the refugee camp founded by John and Bobby that Sam had called home his whole life, had routine patrols that went out for miles in case an angel came too close. Isaac had fallen victim to the angel that had been meticulously picking off their hunters for the past few months. He was the third to get his brain scrambled.

That morning, John Winchester recruited the best hunters in Salvage to set out after the monster that was killing their men. Among those hunters was a woman named Tamara, Isaac’s strong, take-no-shit wife who was out for revenge of the worst kind. She would slaughter the thing without a moment’s hesitation and was mostly the reason behind Sam’s deciding not to go with his family. He figured they could take care of one angel, and in the meanwhile, he could get a closer look at the aftereffects of a Purification firsthand.

Although, so far the experience had offered him little more than ‘no response’ scribbled over and over again in Isaac’s page of the journal. His caretaker had offered up more information than he had, but Sam honestly hadn’t expected much. If anything, this whole observation just left a pit in his stomach and a healthy dose of fear regarding the angels he found himself so interested in. They were powerful creatures, no matter how small and weak they seemed on the other end of a bowie knife.

Sam flipped the journal closed and capped his pen. He thought about saying goodbye to Isaac before he left, it was courteous and no one could ever be quite sure if he didn’t register the things happening around him. But the full implications of Purification were still weighing heavy on Sam’s bones and he didn’t know if he could look in those dead eyes again. Outside, the air was thick with post-sunset moisture and it clung to Sam’s clothing in damp wisps.

The home for those who’d been Purified, of which there were six in Salvage, lay just a ramshackle building over from Medical. Which was called just Medical because it was too understaffed and undersupplied to be a hospital and only a species and some gurneys away from being a veterinarian's office. Ironically, Salvage’s head medical practitioner was a woman named Amelia, a former vet, who’d shown up with her husband Don, also a former vet but of the Marine Corps variety.

The two of them had saved more lives in the camp than lost and had stitched and medicated Sam and Dean on multiple, awesome occasions. Sam often spent his free hours with Amelia after hunts to pick up on any and all medical procedures as well as her determinations regarding those that had been Purified or Taken. She was hardly an expert, but she had interesting theories and could make Sam laugh, so what better way to shell out the hours until Dean and Dad got back? Besides, Amelia would be suffering the same undercurrent of jitters just beneath the skin, what with Don out on the hunt as well.

The last thing Sam expected, as he stepped off the shoddy porch towards Medical, was to see John Winchester come stumbling out the doors with blood coating the side of his head. “Dad?” he shouted, tucking the journal into a floorboard of the porch and rushing forward, bewildered and more than a little worried. “When the hell did you get back, what happened?”

John flinched at the sound of Sam’s voice, his hand propped up on the brick wall of Medical to keep himself steady and he blinked owlishly up at Sam with blown pupils. If Sam had to gather just from the look of his father, he would say concussion without a doubt. His fingers itched to search John’s hair for the gash that was flooding crimson, but he was hardly a professional and he didn’t want to make anything worse. “Why aren’t you inside?” he said instead, fingers clenched tightly into his palms.

John faltered, opened his mouth and seemed nearly to gag, his other hand flying up to his mouth for a long moment. He was immobile for just an instant, before he gradually removed his hand and spoke, voice rasping against his throat. “D-Dean. Inside, had to get you.” He swallowed thick and Sam’s heart seized, thudding so rapidly and flooding his body with a fresh wave of blood and fear.

Before he could grab his father and drag him back inside Medical, Jessica Moore (one of Amelia’s nurses) came out looking frantic. Her bright eyes found John immediately and she placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “John, you have to come back in. Sam’s here, we just have to stitch you up,” she said in the soothing voice she reserved especially for Winchesters. John turned on her, faster than Sam thought him capable of in his weakened state.

“You look at my boy,” he said immediately, pushing her hands away. “I don’t need anything until Dean’s okay.” Jess gave Sam a cursory glance, too quick for John to register with a concussion, but loaded with an unsaid plea.

“Dad,” Sam started, trying his best to ignore the sporadic clenching in his gut, because all his body could seem to focus on was the fact that Dean could be dying and Dad was being a stubborn idiot. “Just let her patch you up, I’ll make sure they get to Dean.”

John tensed, but didn’t turn back to Sam. “You take care of Dean, I can do this myself.” His expression must have been something fearsome, because Jess didn’t even spare Sam another look before she rushed back through the metal doors. Dad didn’t follow after her, he only heaved a breath so heavy it seemed to take the very life out of him. His back fell carefully against the white-painted brick and he slid down to the dirt, his head in his hands.

Sam was worried about him, he really was. But it couldn’t have been more than a headwound if John was still talking and intimidating the general area just fine. So he skirted around his father to get inside Medical, to get to Dean, his body buzzing with the need to figure out what the hell had John so worked up. He was just wrapping his hand around the door, when he felt a thick, strong hand wrap around his wrist.

“Dad, I gotta-”

“Stay out of the way, Sam.” John chanced a glance up at him and his eyes were red and the drying blood on his face was only making the weathered lines of his skin more obvious. He looked close to cracking, but Sam knew he wouldn’t, not with the entire camp depending on him. Not even Dean near death could do it. A shudder wracked Sam’s frame at the thought and he jerked his wrist out of his dad’s grip.

He wanted so badly to ignore John’s request, to rip the door open and run in shouting for his brother, because--dammit he’d better be fucking okay or Sam was going to kill his dad. But the nagging tug in the back of his head told him John was right and he’d only get in the way. On top of that, it seemed John was the only one who’d be able to tell Sam how one single angel hunt had gone to shit.

“What happened?” he asked, tone curt as he eyed John through narrowed slits. John met his gaze with his own hard stare, the kind he reserved for when Sam was being particularly insolent.

“He got Purified.”

Sam’s stomach plummeted.

“No. No, no, no,” he shook his head, a tiny disbelieving quirk of his lips. “Dean wouldn’t let that happen, he’s not that stupid. He knows what he’s doing,” he huffed out in a breath, it almost sounded like a laugh but Sam felt like he was going to puke. “It was one stupid angel, Dad, there’s no way-”

“There were two goddamn angels,” John’s voice rose and he was _this_ side of shouting, nothing but harsh lines and stone in his expression. “Two. I miscalculated-- _we_ miscalculated, there was another one and your brother went after it alone.”

He felt like John’s words were coming from somewhere far away, like he was on the other side of a glass window, and had to strain to hear the muffled, distant rumble. Except he wasn’t straining to hear, he was clenching his fists hard enough to pierce the thick calluses in his palms, and fighting away the dead, blank eyes from not an hour earlier.

His mind was working rapidly, bringing Dean’s brilliant green irises to the forefront  accompanied by a vacant shadow that drained the light from behind them and left them as cold and empty as Isaac’s. Sam fought down the abrupt wave of nausea, because fuck this was _Dean_. It couldn’t be true, Dean couldn’t be gone, he wouldn’t leave Sam. He fucking wouldn’t do that to him.

“Sam!” John was yelling, having struggled to a stand in front of him, and shoving at his shoulder. “Sam, don’t you dare lose it on me right now. Focus,” he ordered, using that no-nonsense tone he usually saved for training. Sam wanted to laugh in his face. Him? Focus?

“That’s fucking rich coming from you. How the hell could you let that happen to him? Where _were_ you?” His voice was raising with the speed of his heartbeat and he wanted to punch his dad and blame him and make him cry because goddammit Dean deserved better than him.

John grit his teeth, the muscle in his jaw ticking and he pressed the heel of his palm to the side of his head, shallow breaths raising and collapsing his chest. “Shut the hell up Sam and listen to me.” Sam opened his mouth to retort, he was so _angry_ and so _scared_. John beat him to the punch. “Dean’s not gone, not yet, not if I have anything to say about it. The angel didn’t finish the job, I shot it in the shoulder and it ran.”

Sam was scrunching up his face, his eyes already burning, and shaking his head rapidly. His dad had to be confused, had to be wrong. An angel never left a Purification unfinished, they would die before they left an unpurified soul. “No, Dad they don’t-”

“This one did. Dean was conscious when I got to him, Sam,” John said, his voice steady and his hands suddenly on Sam’s shoulders, holding him down or grounding him. “He was awake and he-” an exhale “he fucking laughed and said thanks.”

Sam bit his lip so hard he was surprised he didn’t taste blood. He processed those words in stages. Dean wasn’t gone--muscles unclenching. Dean wasn’t Purified--breath deepening, evening out. Dean could be saved--heart slowing. “But what does that mean? Everything I’ve read on Purification, all Bobby’s journals- Dad, if he’s not brain dead, what-”

“I don’t know. But we can’t find out until Richardson takes a look at him first, he lost consciousness on the way back and I tried to wake him up but he’s not responding,” John said, wiping messily at the blood on his forehead. “I know that sounds familiar, but he had a head injury. The angel took a swing at his head with something, he could just be out from the trauma.”

Honestly, Sam didn’t know how that could be any better, even brain trauma of the natural origins could lead to the same effects of Purification if he was hit hard enough. He dragged his hands down his face, palms dragging on the faint scruff of unshaven cheeks.

“Look, I know its not ideal, but we can work with head trauma. The doc can do something about that, humans can do something, we know so much more about that than Purification.” John was hardly ever an optimistic man, and Sam knew his dad was right, even if the situation made it nearly impossible to think of it as a silver lining.

“So what, you think we should be happy Dean might get brain damage from being punched instead of being fried by angel juice?” Sam said and he couldn’t help the creeping tone of disgust, because maybe he still blamed John for this whole damn thing in the first place. John diverted his gaze, his alternative to shaking his head with a concussion.

“Nobody’s _happy_ about anything, Sam,” he spat out. “I’m trying to help Dean, given this shitstorm, which is a helluva lot more than I can say for you.” His words were aimed to get a rise or even to hurt hard enough to get silence. Sam licked his chapped lips, flashing his teeth.

“Really? Me? You’re the one who was out there with him! You were supposed to keep him safe! What kind of father lets his son go after an angel on his own? If you hadn’t let him out of your sight maybe he wouldn’t be comatose in there!” He felt accusatory frustration pollute the relief in his chest like a poison, insidious and dark, and he wanted little else than to sling a punch at his father’s set jaw.

“ _You_ refused to come with us. You stayed here writing down notes when you could’ve been at Dean’s side, been where you’re supposed to be, where I _raised_ you to be,” John said and he wasn’t yelling, his tone was severe, sharp enough to cut steel. Sam let out a restrained sound and was close enough to the edge, to the thin line he balanced on constantly for Dean’s sake, to fall off and let this stupid thing deteriorate into the fist fight it was begging to be.

“Sorry to ruin your pissing contest, but y’all need to see this,” Bobby’s gruff voice broke in, catching both John and Sam off guard. Sam didn’t have it in him to face the only other person to have a hand in raising him, could practically feel the disappointment in his glare. Bobby didn’t bother to wait for a response from either of them, turning around and heading back inside. Sam met John’s eyes for barely a second before both of them pushed inside, promptly ignoring each others’ presence in favor of Dean’s.

Medical had always been just one large warehouse of a room, filled with twenty or so hospital beds, curtained off for a semblance of privacy. In the back, were the supplies and the operating table where Amelia did her job to the best of her veterinarian ability. Sam could feel at least some bit of relief that Bobby led them to a cordoned off bed and not the sterile surface of the operating table. He’d seen Dean cut open and bleeding out on there one too many times.

He caught glimpse of Tamara behind the thin, slightly torn veil of curtain, being bandaged around the midriff with already red-soaked gauze. At least she hadn’t been lost, at least she hadn’t left Isaac alone in this world. No matter that he had practically done it to her. Sam clenched his teeth, because with Dean in the state he was, he really couldn’t afford to think like that. Not if he wanted to maintain his sanity, let alone a level head.

“He’s here,” Bobby said, and Sam rounded the curtain rack. He didn’t know what he expected to see--Dean unconscious in a bed was about the extent of his imagination. Which was an accurate prediction, save for the fact that Dean’s skin was glowing.

Sam inhaled sharply, eyes tracing the veins suddenly made clear by some sort of internal flashlight, as if someone had poured fire into Dean’s capillaries, flooding his system with phosphorescence. It lit from beneath the skin, shining through in an orange haze, the kind of light usually coming from angels’ hands. Particularly when a man was being Purified.

“I left to get a look at Don and when I came back... this was happening,” Bobby explained uselessly, making an expansive gesture to Dean’s current state.

“Do you have any idea what it might be?” John asked, voice low. Sam didn’t wait for the obvious answer, simply stepped up the edge of the bed and placed his fingers against Dean’s wrist. He ignored his dad’s warning, “Sam.”

Nothing happened at the contact. Sam didn’t suddenly go braindead and Dean’s skin felt like its usual warm, slightly rough state. The underlying glow looked pretty much harmless, but just in case, Sam felt his brother’s pulse. It thudded at a steady fifty-four beats.

“All’s I can tell is he got some angel mojo in him. Dunno how, or why,” Bobby said quietly, arms crossed. “It’s gotta be some kinda aftereffect from the interrupted Purification.” Sam retracted his hand from Dean’s and followed the veins, alight, back up to his brother’s still face.

He’d heard people talk about comas, how one could almost be fooled into thinking they were just asleep, just taking a short nap. But Sam couldn’t see that at all. Dean had never been so still before. He was always moving in his sleep, a jerk of his head, the twitch of an itchy nose, a mouthing of a dreamed word. It was unnerving and a pinch in his chest made him ache for anything, even movement beneath his eyelids, the slightest sign his brother was still in there.

“Grab a seat, Boy.” Bobby cut through Sam’s reverie and he jerked his gaze away from Dean’s frozen body. Before he could do anything, John pushed a ripped chair against the back of Sam’s knees with his foot. His dad’s eyes didn’t leave Dean the entire movement and Sam couldn’t bring up the energy or gall to say thanks in his own stilted version of an olive branch. Instead, he pulled the chair up as close to the bed as he could get and gingerly sat.

It was quiet. There wasn’t much else to say. Nobody knew what was happening with Dean, surely nobody had seen it before, and all three of them would give anything to take his place. Not long after, Ellen Harvelle slid past the curtain, a shadow crossing her face at the sight of Dean. Sam didn’t think it was because his veins were glowing either. “The other hunters want to talk, John,” she said and her tone was high and tiptoe-careful, as if they were all fragile glass and she might shatter them with just her voice.

John didn’t say anything and Sam figured Bobby must have made some sort of gesture behind him, because the two of them left silently. Sam ignored his dad and leaned forward on his arms, his eyes only inches from Dean’s left arm, staring intently at the eerie shine. His fingers itched to drag along the veins, to feel if the light emitted any kind of heat, if it was hurting Dean in any way.

At some point, John found a free seat and propped it up on the opposite side of Dean’s bed. He didn’t stick too close like Sam, he sat back and stared, taking in all of it, documenting it, maybe trying to understand. Jess came in to fix up John’s gash a few hours later and he was compliant, Sam spared her a nod of thanks when she left and she only offered a small smile.

Sam’s nose was stuffed with the earlier threat of tears, and he found himself sniffling every few minutes as he turned his head to rest his cheek on his arms. That way he had a clear view of his brother’s face, his chest--its steady rise and fall--and the ticking pulse just beneath the sharp cut of his jaw. The strange underlight to Dean’s skin wavered as the time passed, Sam found himself counting the minutes in between each flicker and dimming, like he used to do with thunder in an oncoming storm. He wondered what the hell it could mean.

He also wondered if the angel that did this to Dean would know. If it actually held some semblance of intelligence the way Sam theorized they did, if it was laying somewhere, high up in a tree, smiling because it knew what it did to Dean. Oh, but John had shot it hadn’t he? So it was injured, but probably no less pleased with itself. That was if it could be pleased with itself.

Sam scowled and felt an irrational amount of animosity towards this idea of an intelligent angel, one that could speak, that had a purpose behind its actions instead of just blindly killing humans. He bet that angel was out there still. If it had been shot it was probably still in the woods just South of Salvage. That pinch in Sam’s chest squeezed harder and something dark shuddered inside him.

He was going to find that angel. He’d find it and if he couldn’t get it to talk, if they really were nothing more than mindless animals, attacking for no reason other than that it was in their nature, then he’d kill it. He’d shoot its wings off with a shotgun and bury it six feet into the earth for doing this to his brother. Sam’s eyelids drooped as another wave of light faded to a barely detectable ember in Dean’s skin.

He slipped into sleep, heavy and thick, and dreamt of falling.

 

~

 

John was gone when Sam startled awake, his cheek cold and damp from drool and his eyes caked in crust. He snuffled and rubbed viciously at his face to get the feeling back, peeking between swipes of his hands at the petite blonde now occupying John’s chair. She snorted.

“Finally you’re awake. You’ve been snoring and drooling for hours,” she informed with not a small amount of playful derision. Jo Harvelle was Ellen’s young spitfire of a daughter. She had enough brash courage to make Dean look like a responsible adult. Her long hair was messily pulled back, strands having escaped throughout the night, and she had her arms wrapped tightly around her torso, rubbing her bare upper arms slowly. She looked stressed.

“Where’s our dad?” Sam asked, throat rough. He cleared it and adjusted his position, muscle cramps and popping joints making their expected appearances.

“He’s regulating hunt patrols. An angel was sighted, like, fifty feet outside the compound.”

Sam frowned, massaging his sore neck. That was disturbingly close for one angel. They may be mindless animals, but even the dumbest animal didn’t just wander up to a place full of things that wanted to kill it. Unless--Sam tensed--unless it was coming back to finish a Purification.

Jo must have caught his expression. “It’s definitely not the one who got Dean,” she said, her voice wavering just a little on his brother’s name. “This one was on the East border. If John Winchester shot that angel like he says he did, there’s no way it’s getting that far that fast.”

Her big brown eyes, the kind that could disarm a guy, slid from Sam back to Dean where he lay just the same as before Sam fell asleep. His skin wasn’t lit up like a Christmas tree at the moment and he just looked like Dean, normal dumb-joke, lopsided-grin, Dean. The pinch in Sam’s chest twisted into a tourniquet.

“I heard Dean’s been glowing,” Jo said and her voice lilted up at the end with an exhale of a laugh that wasn’t quite a laugh. Sam eyed the smattering of freckles across the bridge of Dean’s nose, had never realized how hard they were to see until Dean’s face was lit up from inside.

“Yeah,” Sam muttered, unable to quite tear his attention away from the way his brother’s eyes refused to move beneath their lids. Too still, too quiet, too _not Dean._ Fear crept up his stomach, claws digging in for the long haul, and god how he wanted to fix this, fix his brother. Whatever was wrong with him.

But the harsh reality was nobody could fix him if they didn’t know what the hell was happening to him. Bobby had mentioned something about asking all the survivors, the drifters, the refugees, if any of them had heard of something like this before. Sam wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t find anything. Their luck never quite worked out that way.

“What do you think it is?” Jo asked in the way one did to fill the silence, prying her eyes away from Dean with a deep breath that raised her shoulders. Steeling herself. “Bobby says some angel juice got stuck in him. Or he thinks so anyway.”

“I don’t know, maybe.” Sam wished they had more than just guesses and maybes, something, anything to go on. A lead. But instead all he had was his brother in some sort of coma with glowing veins that could be killing him. All because of one damned angel and Dean’s bullheaded need to constantly prove himself to people who already knew. Sam hoped, in a sadistic sort of way, that that angel bled out from wherever the hell John had shot him. Or at least was so injured it couldn’t go anywhere, desperate and afraid. Like Sam felt now.

He wanted nothing more than to grab a gun and go kill it himself. He’d do it too, if John wouldn’t have a conniption. Sam hesitated, brow creasing. “You said John’s busy regulating patrols, right? For that angel?”

“Yeah, they’re trying to scare it off so it doesn’t try and ambush the camp or anything. Although, if it does it’s a really stupid angel,” Jo said, raising a hand to brush against Dean’s distractedly. Sam nodded and made to stand.

“Hey, can you watch Dean for me? Stay with him, I don’t want him to be alone,” he said, casting his eyes down at his brother and hoping what he was about to do wouldn’t get him killed. Dean would never forgive him if he woke up only to find out Sam had run off on a suicide mission alone.

Jo blinked up at him. “Why? Where are you going?”

“I’m gonna go through some of Bobby’s journals in his library. You know, to see if I can find anything out on Dean’s condition.” Sam rolled out the lie like honey and even tacked on a sad half-smile. Jo fell for the kicked puppy act hook, line, and sinker much like Dean and nodded.

“Yeah okay, good. I’ll be here, I won’t leave him,” she said with a tiny, two-fingered salute. Sam genuinely smiled at that before quietly slipping out.

Finding his double-barrel and Dean’s .45 was an easy feat, especially with the majority of hunters gathered around the East end, including Bobby and John. Sam went ahead and changed clothes, pulling on a thicker jacket over his layers. He also packed a small bag of water and sealed snacks from his dad’s place, just in case he couldn’t find the angel before sun down.

He had to pass Medical again to get to the Southern exit and he paused outside the doors for a short moment, realizing that he should’ve told Dean bye before he left. But it was too late now, he couldn’t very well go in there looking like he was about to go kill something. Dean would understand, he told himself, and turned to go only to have his eyes drag across the front porch of the house for the Purified. The Purification journal was still tucked away against the wood board.

The Southern exit was only occupied by three teenagers who were too young to go hunting and too old to play around camp. These would-be soldiers got assigned to the underappreciated, and extremely valuable, Watch and maintained the two-storey high structures with a few rifles and some binoculars. It was very likely that a couple kids on Watch at the East exit were the ones to spot that lone angel, hours ago. Sam ducked his head when he saw a guy glance over the railing at him and hoped they wouldn’t ask where he was going.

Parked up against the gating that tried its best to keep Salvage in and the monsters out, was a scuffed to all hell quad bike. It was Dad’s and Sam was honestly surprised the thing had gotten back in once piece with all the injured hunters and what had happened to Dean. Beside the red quad was Don’s green motorbike, its plastic encasing smeared with dusty blood. Sam’s stomach rolled and he realized he’d been too busy with Dean to even ask about Amelia’s husband. But his chest was too tight, too wound to even spare the man another thought.

He was just thinking they’d abandoned Dean’s baby out in the floodplains when a sudden hand squeezed his right elbow. He flinched away and tried his best to wipe off the likely pathetic expression on his face. Krissy Chambers, a fifteen year old on Watch, gave him a cautious once over and said, “Dean’s bike is by the tower there.” She pointed behind her with the M16 Dean had given her a few months back. “Tam rode it back. I fixed the kick for Dean since he’s . . . y’know.”

Sam nodded, jerky and stilted. “Did you fill it up?” he asked, attention already riveted on the black Kawasaki propped on its stand. It’s week old coat of paint (some shit Dean had swiped from the warehouse twenty miles over) had enough gloss in it to catch the sunlight and Sam’s throat constricted. Because, shit, Dean had been riding out on that baby barely twenty-four hours earlier and now he was in a fucking coma he might not come back from.

“Yeah, I did,” Krissy said, voice quiet enough to push him gently back. When Sam’s eyes refocused on her impossibly small form, her expression was impassive, unreadable. A poker face that he’d often seen Dean use when something bad had happened. “Is Dean gonna be okay?” Her face gave away nothing, but her voice quivered just the slightest and Sam knew she was scared.

Her and Sam both.

“I don’t know,” he told her truthfully, adjusting the strap cutting into his shoulder. Krissy and Dean had been close ever since her father was killed by an angel a few years back. Dean had taken it upon himself to teach her how to shoot then, gave her a way to channel all the shit she was going through into a few rounds of aluminum shells. Patented Dean Winchester therapy. According to what Dean told him she was a fucking great shot-- _maybe even better ‘n you Sammy_ \--and bound to be one of their best when she was old enough.

Krissy breathed a long, steadying breath, the rifle rising and falling with the movement. “What do you want me to tell them? When they ask?” she said and her gaze had drifted back towards camp.

The corner of Sam’s mouth twitched up. What she was offering would undoubtedly get her in trouble with the whole of Salvage, especially John who’d invariably be the one to decide when she was good enough to hunt for real. Krissy could very well be sacrificing a future of hunting with Dean, something Sam knew she was looking forward to as much his brother himself.

On top of that, the two of them had never been close, never really talked unless Dean was around to mediate the awkward. It lifted just a little weight off of Sam’s chest to know he wasn’t the only one who’d sacrifice something for Dean. Even if _his_ something was more like everything.

“Tell them I’ll be back before sunrise tomorrow,” he finally said and hoped that would be enough time to appease John, keep him from sending out the bloodhounds as soon as he realized Sam had disappeared.

“And if you’re not?”

Sam licked his teeth, sidestepping Krissy towards Dean’s bike. “Then I’m probably dead.”

“What about Dean?” And her voice was cross, Sam could practically feel the scowl aimed at his back as he ran his fingers over the leather seat. “What’s he supposed to do without-?”

“Don’t,” Sam cut her off, turning just enough to shoot her a warning look. He could already feel the swell in his throat. “I’m gonna get him help and if not that then- then revenge.” That was all he _could_ do, all he was capable of, with his limited knowledge and unsupported theories on things Dean would kill him for considering.

He expected some sort of dissent, but Krissy simply nodded once and wedged a foot under the kickstand. “Okay.” She pushed it up, her dark eyes intent on his. Almost a challenge, _I dare you to save your brother._ Like she needed to.

“Okay.” Sam agreed in turn and threw a leg over the dirt bike. Starting her up with a low rumble--the familiar sound and smell rife in his senses--he gave Krissy another stunted smile. She nodded and stepped over to the large swinging gate of the South exit a few paces away. As soon as the chains were unlocked, the wire-gate pulled back, Sam revved the acceleration in a spray of dirt and was gone.

 

~

 

The floodplain forest was the type of forest that crept up on you. It didn’t have a definitive treeline to tell you where it started, but more of scattering of trees that slowly grew in number and height the deeper you went. There had always been a convenient beaten trail of dirt that wound through the grassy flatland into the sycamores and cottonwoods ever since Sam could remember, giving access to all-terrain vehicles. He vaguely recalled hearing mention that John and Bobby had worked on it when he was still a baby.

The path was familiar and well worn by the boots on Sam’s feet and tires on Dean’s bike. The two of them had trekked through this forest on countless patrols over the years, Dean always overexcited and Sam pretending to be put-out with the world. In recent months, Sam spent more time in Bobby’s library, poring over journals upon journals, and Dean had opted instead to go with other hunters. Sam’s own quad bike had gotten trashed by an angel about then and he’d just never bothered to fix it (though he had a nagging suspicion Dean had anyway).

An hour’s ride into the floodplains, the trail began to branch off into thinner veins that stretched out and bisected throughout the acres of forest, seemingly random as they threaded through the thickening trunks. It was anyone’s guess who’d made each and every individual footpath and for what reason. Sam and Dean had made a few in their hikes, sometimes to get a view, or kill a rabbit, or just for something different.They had a systemic route through the lush foliage and quiet brooks that brought them zigzagging miles in where the cottonwoods gave way to massive oaks, the kind of trees that liked to hide angels at night.

Sam had every landmark (the tree stripped of bark, the creek with the green waterfall, the cairn Dean made with gorilla glue) mapped out in his head like a crude drawing in crayons. He’d been visualizing the world around Salvage like that ever since he was kid and it worked. Granted, his colored mental guide was nothing compared to Bobby’s practically blueprinted mockup of the floodplains, but it was easy to remember and didn’t clutter.

He was braking at the twenty mile marker, a sycamore split in literal halves by an angel, and pulling out some dried beef, as his brain worked to draw up quick routes through the forest based on his destination. The entire area Dean’s hunt had been canvassing yesterday covered roughly four acres of woods in a shakily drawn oval (cornflower blue crayon). That oval encompassed all three black Xs, marking the exact spot each Purified hunter had been found, and pretty much guaranteed that the angel would be within that radius.

Swigging down a gulp of water from his canteen, Sam recalled that nine inches up and to the left from the sycamore broke the oval’s line, which meant he was roughly four more hours away. He stuffed the canteen back into the bag over his torso and adjusted the bike between his legs. If he rode hard enough he might make it there in three.

It only took two. And twenty-seven minutes according to the tiny screen on the police radio Dean had rigged up to his bike. Sam would’ve blamed a miscalculation except that instead of the landmarker (a boulder the size of Dean) to tell him he was there, he found a body.

The stench of rotting meat was enough to toss Sam’s belly and he covered his mouth and nose with a sweaty palm. The body lay on its front, the back of its neck a greenish hue and the scalp of its bald head split. Its skin was dark as the soil it had sunken into, body round with weight and lacerated to the nines. The back was not only inflicted with two bullet wounds, gaping holes in the flesh, but a slightly raised hunk of feather and bone that was once the socket of a wing.

The sawed off appendage had almost been victim to Sam’s tires. He’d have run it over, had he not barely managed to slam the brakes in time (hard enough to make Dean wince back home), the back wheel rearing up with the momentum. Now he stood, straddling Dean’s bike, and staring down incredulously at a dead body not a five feet from his front tire.

The wing, larger than Sam was tall, was still completely feathered and as immaculate as it would’ve been were it still attached. Their wings didn’t deteriorate at quite the same rate as a human body did. The feathers were a faded grey, but not the kind that came with dirt, more like the color after a heavy rain--dull and damp with just a flicker of shine. On an upward glance, Sam noticed that the other wing was still mostly connected to the body, there was a deep black gash into the fleshy part as if someone had tried to remove it in one swing. Maybe Don, maybe Tamara. Whoever it was hadn’t had time to finish, perhaps went after Dean.

Sam’s chest did the uncomfortable twist at the thought of his dumbass brother chasing a second angel like he was some kind of hero. Like he needed to prove he was a hero. Dean’s injury (along with the others’ if they were bad enough) must have been the reason that this angel lay unburied.

No one really knew where the tradition had come from, could’ve been John’s idea or even a straggler just passing through Salvage decades ago. But if a hunter killed an angel, that hunter buried the angel with its wings removed as a sort of memorial for the human it had Taken and used. The gruesome act had never sat very well in Sam’s gut, every muscle in his body protesting against the dismemberment of a dead body, even an angel’s. Dean wasn’t too big on it either.

This angel wouldn’t get its burial and whoever it had been, a man that wore suits if the trousers were anything to go by, wouldn’t either.

Sam dismounted the bike, intending to walk it around the decaying carcass, when the distinct sound of flapping feathers struck through the quiet. He turned to the right, eyes searching rapidly for the sign of another angel as he mentally ticked off his arsenal, taking stock. This could be it. This angel could be the one that hurt Dean. The thought alone was enough to get his blood pumping, heart thudding, and adrenaline flushing out any anxieties.

He slid his .45 from the back of his jeans slowly, his gaze still flitting from trunk to trunk, scanning the low-hanging branches. It was absolutely silent save for the rustle of wind against leaves and then abruptly a flash of black feathers. Sam lowered Dean’s bike to the grass, cocking his handgun as he did so, the click was inaudible and his eyes found another glimpse of pale skin. Wings dragging through underbrush, making so much noise, Sam was suspicious. Whatever the hell this angel was doing, it was being almost purposely loud, which couldn’t bode well. Maybe a trap?

Sam would be stupid to follow after it, but then he was stupid--because this could be the thing that tried to erase his brother and he wasn’t about to miss the chance to put a bullet in its fucking brain. He stalked after it, silently as if he were catching dinner, gun braced at his side. Just feet behind it, Sam ducking around an oak, and he noted it was a female, blonde hair, slender build, and ridiculously unaware for an angel. Sam had never actually gotten so close to one without being mauled before.

If it was the one that’d hurt Dean, it could be injured and therefore too close to death to realize there was a human trailing behind it. But Sam didn’t see any bullet wounds on either of its shoulders, not at least from behind. He swallowed thickly. So probably not the angel. Still it was heading in the direction of Salvage and that meant it needed to die.

He aimed the pistol, feet planted firmly, standing only half-hidden by a mass of dangling moss and pulled the trigger. It shot off with an echoing crack.

And then Sam was being tackled to the dirt, .45 flying from his hands, and breath knocking out of his lungs as he crushed his bag beneath him. He wasn’t sure if the shot went wide or if the angel had just moved in time, but its slender fingers were tight around his throat, inhuman strength just shy of crushing his trachea. It bared its teeth, narrowed its green eyes, intensified the premature wrinkles on its feminine face. It didn’t look human.

Sam had the advantage of a longer reach and he had one hand pushing as hard as he could against its jaw, just long enough to distract from the machete he was sliding out of his chest holster. It bit at his fingers just as he pulled away, unawares of the blade until it was buried in the crook between neck and shoulder. The scream was animal-like, more of a roar with a human throat, and it tumbled off of him with a spray of blood that dislodged the knife.

Red decorating his front, Sam rolled up onto his knees, searching rapidly for his missing handgun. He found it just a few feet off, in some tree roots. Scrambling for it on all fours, he had just wound his fingers around the butt of it when a tight, aching grip cinched around his left ankle and wrenched him backwards. Pain blossomed up his calf but it was barely a blip on his radar as he flipped onto his back and took aim. This time the bullet lodged in the angel’s gut, giant wings flaring out behind it like an electric shock.

It twisted away from him, arms flying to its midriff as the blood coated the pale skin, leaking through its makeshift barrier. It was clambering to its feet in a whirlwind of feathers, the left wing whipping out to collide with Sam’s gun and knocking his aim off just long enough for it to get on stumbling feet and run into the foliage.

Sam leapt up, wiping the red from his cheek with his sleeve, and tucking the .45 back into the waist of his pants. He brandished the machete and rushed in pursuit, following the trampled and broken path effortlessly. Every long stride brought just that much more of the angel’s back into his line of sight, the fluttering wings, the stuttering steps, as blood loss and pain deterred its efforts. He lost sight of it for only an instant when his boot caught in a raised root and he stumbled forward, bracing against a trunk.

Once he got back his momentum, there was nothing to follow but a beaten path and he blindly rushed through it, aching to catch up with the angel. He’d picked up his pace to a full blown sprint when it didn’t immediately appear back into his line of sight. All he could see ahead of him was an almost unnaturally dense copse of trees that filtered in little sunlight, but the trail lead straight through it, and he followed without hesitation.

Too late, he realized that the ground abruptly ceased to exist and his foot stepped out into air. Sam lurched, his stomach jumping into his throat and his arms pin-wheeling, as he toppled over the edge. The cliff wasn’t exactly a far drop, but it was definitely steep. Sam flung his hands out, deliberately tossing the machete out of harm’s way, to catch himself before he face-planted. His chest and hips took the rest of the impact, bursts of pain exploding at all points from what must have been rocks and tree roots.

The collision sent shockwaves through his ribs, breathless lungs heaving against the cage of his caving chest. Sam flopped over, ignoring the press of his rucked up bag against his shoulder blades and gasping for air. He hoped to all hell his ribs hadn’t cracked. Shit, it felt like he’d just dive-bombed into a pit of stones, bruises undoubtedly covering him like a speckled lizard. Sam took one, two, three heaves of damp breath to detract from the pain and gather himself. He knew he had to move, with that angel more than likely still up on the cliff edge, he was now at a serious disadvantage. Even if it was bleeding out its gut.

Arching his body up further than it already had from the fall, Sam searched for his machete in the surrounding area but it was nowhere he could see, might’ve even landed up top before he fell. He was already fumbling for the gun again when the blonde angel peered over the side on its hands and knees. Sam froze, hand trapped beneath his waist. He watched, acutely aware of his vulnerability, spread-eagled without a weapon. The angel’s face contorted in a scowl, its dark eyebrows pushing together.

It retracted for a fraction of a second, long enough for Sam to free his gun, and then reappeared on two feet with a very familiar machete in its left hand. He braced to fire, aiming at the weeping hole in its stomach, and managed off two shots before it leapt down, wings splaying to break the fall. Sam scrambled backwards on his ass, the bullet lodged in its hip and the graze against its ribs did little to deter it this time, and _shit_ he knew taking on an angel alone would get him killed, had had it ingrained in his skull.

The creature advanced towards him, blood practically pouring down its entire left side and from the slice in its neck, holding the machete awkwardly around the base of the blade. Sam pointed the barrel of his .45 right at its forehead and prayed for a miracle as he pulled the trigger. A miracle was hardly forthcoming. In a flash of feathers and blood, the angel was straddling him at the waist, gun knocked to the wayside. Empty hands threw frenzied punches that barely scraped skin, anything to hinder the angel’s effort, until it stabbed the machete down.

It wasn’t intending to kill Sam, the sharp blade cutting into his left shoulder was hardly an inch deep, but it dug into the dirt and kept him immobile. He bit down hard, teeth grinding as the abrupt throbbing pain pulsed through his entire arm, hot sticky blood pooling beneath him. His pupils were blown wide and fuzzing in and out with each dull thud of his heart, his mind darting a mile a minute in some frantic grasp for an escape route.

Pale fingertips crept up Sam’s face, cold and thin, and he jerked his head to the side with a grunt. His eyes jumped from one empty patch of dirt to the next, desperately searching for the gun. He’d almost given up when his gaze caught something blue across the clearing and widened. A pair of eyes, blue as the sky, were staring right at him, narrowed and flashing with something that almost looked like recognition. Sam made to glance over the face, see if it truly was possible that a fellow hunter had found him, but the angel gripped his face tight and jerked him close, nails digging into his cheeks.

He could only make out a slash of a scowling mouth above him, before the sudden glow of Purification lit up from beneath his skin, blinding him to nothing but white. Sam kicked desperately, flailing his arms despite the machete in his shoulder, because fuck what was the use? Why had he even come out here alone like some stupid, reckless child chasing theories with no substance and revenge with no reward? Sam was just beginning to feel something, some sort of nagging calm at the back of his mind, whispering in a sweet murmur. He fought against it, spitting, and shouting and then-

It was gone.

The weight on his torso vanished, ripped from him like tree roots from the ground, and he felt himself pull along with its grasping limbs for a skin-tearing second before he fell free. The sharp movement slid the machete free from his shoulder and he collapsed with a whoosh of exhaled air beside it. A shrieking wail pierced the fog clouding his head and he forced his blurry gaze to focus, raising his head just enough to see. Sam’s breath caught in his chest cavity.

An angel, _another_ angel, with wings bigger and blacker than the first, wrapped its palm across the blonde’s yowling face. Its skin lit up the way it only did when a Purification was about to happen and a burst of brighter glow spasmed down the angel’s arm. The blonde female’s screeching cut off instantly and then it’s body was crumpling in a heap, lifeless and gray-skinned. Sam watched the whole thing, slack-jawed. What the hell was that? Did an angel just Purify another angel? Was that even possible? But it had been so fast, he’d never heard of the processes being sped up like that.

A starburst of pain blossomed in the front of Sam’s head and he cringed, neck straining to keep the new angel in his sight. It was in a male body, bared torso covered in an expanse of tan skin, the kind of color that came naturally. Its wings were huge, probably around ten feet each in length and as wide as Sam’s arm was long, covered in feathers impossibly dark in the bright sunlight. One wing was spread out in a lazy manner, the way angels were wont to do when they didn’t detect any immediate danger, but the other was curled in close to its back, hanging almost limply. Injured?

At that thought, Sam’s attention jumped to the shoulders, searching for any marr in the flesh. Its left shoulder raised, tensed, as if aware of his scrutiny. A tear edged by puckered skin was suddenly visible with the movement, just a little to the back. It was red and more than likely infected, pus oozing over the lip of shredded skin. Sam’s whole body went rigid and he was upright, wound screaming in protest, and hand scrabbling behind him for the machete stuck in the ground.

This was it, this was the angel that tried to kill Dean. Sam’s gut clenched and his free hand flexed with the urge to search for his gun. He didn’t want to coo and coddle the information out of it, not if it hurt Dean- no. He wanted to put the barrel of his .45 to its pretty face and watch its pupils dilate, encompass those bright blue irises, watch it fear for its life. His hand was around the blade.

The angel tilted its head, taking a short step closer. Its black hair, dark as its wings, stuck up all over as if it had touched a live electrical wire. Sam would’ve found the look hilarious if the angel couldn’t rip his head off his shoulders. A frown furrowed its brows, the kind of half-confused, half-curious expression Sam was more accustomed to seeing on puppies. He braced himself and almost bared his teeth when the angel took another tentative step, black slacks from the human it’d Taken rustling noisily in the quiet. He took note with a quick glance that its feet were bare, something he could stab given the opportunity.

They stayed like that for a long moment. The hair on the back of Sam’s neck stood up and he couldn’t quite meet the angel’s gaze head on, because he had no idea what the hell was going on. What kind of angel killed one of its own? What kind of angel just stared at a human like this? And even, what kind of angel didn’t finish a Purification? Possibly let Dean live? Sam bit down on his cheek and carefully edged the machete loose.

It didn’t look like the angel was going to move from its spot a body’s length away. Sam knew he couldn’t kill it. Not without doing some seriously fatal injury to himself and even that was unlikely. He swallowed the poisonous urge for revenge, Dean--unconscious and sick and needing his help--flashed across his vision. It was enough to get his mind clear, remember his initial reason for tracking down the angel that tried to kill his brother. He was going to question it. Ask it something, just try and communicate in any way he knew how. Sam’s gaze, firmly planted on the angel’s unmoving hands, hesitantly found its eyes again, searching for something even he couldn’t properly give name to. Intelligence? Understanding? Recognition? Like he thought he’d seen before.

Its pupils shrunk under Sam’s stare and the irises were bright, shining with the reflection of sunlight in a way that almost gave them depth. Something Sam never expected to see in the eyes of an animal, in the beady black pools of his next meal, in the hollow shells of the Purified. The angel blinked and Sam thought he saw a vague flash of a thought flit across its expression. Almost human. There was no way this creature could possibly be as mindless and animalistic as John believed--as _humanity_ had come to think. Not with those eyes.

But there was only one way to be sure. Sam parted dry lips, his throat suddenly parched and asked the obvious question with no small amount of anxiety. “Why did you help me?” _Save_ was probably the better word.

At the sound of his voice, rough and cracked as it was, the angel faltered closer almost as if by mistake, now only a few paces from Sam’s feet. He could see its feathers, glossy and clean up close, flutter in time with the blue eyes that darted over his face. It wasn’t the same as the bristles and shudders angels did when frightened or in warning, where the feathers sort of puffed out and stood almost on end. As if to make it look larger. Instead, the fluttering Sam could see was a soft wave of movement starting at the base and washing over the entire wing like goosebumps across flesh. His fingers itched to write this down, having never been close enough to actually observe the subtle difference.

It didn’t look like it was going to answer, but the amount of animated interest abruptly locked on Sam’s face was something, at least. He was about to say more, ask if the thing could even understand what he was saying, but then the angel closed the short distance between them so fast Sam lurched. He swung the machete to rest just a touch away from the delicate flesh of its neck. It wasn’t a stretch by any means as the blue-eyed angel had shoved its own face so close their noses could almost touch, they were practically breathing each others’ exhales.

The abrupt proximity sent Sam’s instincts abuzz and he had to inhale sharply through his nose to keep the tremors in his chest to just that. The spike in his heart rate wasn’t doing much to help the situation, along with the angel squatting over his thighs and staring at him as if there wasn’t a blade pressed to its throat. At Sam’s stuttered breaths--because holy hell he’d never been so close to one before, he could see its dark stubble, each individual hair--the angel tilted its head. Sam could see a very slight flush across its cheeks, a gentle pink that might’ve been the result of exertion. If so, a blush was the only sign that the angel was at all affected by its injuries.

Its gaze darted to up to meet Sam’s, temporarily catching him off guard. Its face was scrunched in a frown, narrowed eyes. Sam held his breath, body tense all over and senses keenly aware of the giant black wings fluttering in little waves and the knife he held just a hair shy of its neck. A minute twitch of its eyelids and then the angel was raising a hand towards Sam’s cheek in a gesture he was all too familiar with. He’d be damned if he let this thing hurt him like it hurt Dean.

Sam grit his teeth. The blade split its skin, red beading beneath dirty steel. Sam hadn’t even noticed the reflexive jolt of his wrist until the angel’s fingers faltered, tips just barely grazing his cheekbone. He tilted his head away immediately and pressed the machete harder in a silent warning. The angel blinked, slow and confused. And then it pulled its hand back and cast a side-glance at the dirt, brow furrowing further. If it were still human, still capable of human-level intelligence, Sam might’ve said it looked frustrated.

He watched in silence, because what else could he do? With the machete to his advantage there wasn’t much the angel could try at this proximity and it already seemed like communication was getting them absolutely nowhere. Sam’s heart squeezed because he was really starting to accept that angels were no more intelligent than the rest of the things he hunted. If it couldn’t even comprehend his simple question from before there was no way it could help Dean.

The angel bit its lower chapped lip, glaring wholeheartedly at the ground like it was the earth’s fault and Sam tried not to lose his patience with the creature crouching on top of him. The machete was still firmly digging into its flesh when it cut blue eyes to Sam’s mouth, and something- _something_ glittered in their flinty irises. The kind of thing Sam didn’t see in animals.

A pink tongue darted out to run along its own lips in a very familiar nervous gesture Sam had often observed in people and he found himself second-guessing his earlier thoughts. Everything the angel did indicated a human quality, some semblance of humanity or intelligence, but Sam honestly couldn’t quite figure out if he was only imagining these similarities, his brain creating them simply because it _looked_ like a man.

The chapped lips, now slightly shiny with saliva, parted--the angel opening its mouth. Sam briefly wondered if it would bite him, if that was the last line of defense for an angel with a knife cutting into its neck. The idea was pitiable and laughable at the same time. Sam flexed his fingers.

And the angel spoke.

“Sammy.”

 

~

 

The broken wing had gone numb and if he didn’t move it--just let it hang limply, curled in protectively--there was nothing more than the faint spikes of pain every so often. Completely disregardable at this point. The gun wound on his shoulder was little more than a pinprick and the blade against his tender throat hardly even registered. But Castiel wasn’t entirely sure if this was his human body’s natural reaction to injury or if great distraction was enough to dull his nerve endings blunt for the time being.

It felt like all of his capability to feel was directed inward, all entirely incorporeal sensations that had his mind reeling. Something that left an odd taste in his mouth and a burning in his chest that should’ve worried him with its intensity. Uriel would’ve been worried had such things been happening to his human body. But Castiel was not Uriel and he was too busy reveling in the experience to question it. Not when Sam--and Castiel’s entire body flushed with another wave of that sensation--Sammy was laying right _there._

He was exactly the way the human Dean’s soul had loved him, sang of him, lit up with him. He was big and warm and alive. Strong, frail, and reckless. Castiel hadn’t even given himself time to think before he was killing the other angel. She had been trying to Save Sam and while it was a noble feat, one that they had been put in this world to perform, Castiel wasn’t about to let her touch Sam’s soul.

Just the idea of her fingers touching the most intimate, broken, bright part of Sam’s existence had Castiel acting completely on impulse. Uriel would say that it was ‘ _very human_ ’ of him, doing things without considering the consequences, acting on a feeling instead of a calculated stratagem. There was very much about Castiel’s current situation that Uriel would disapprove of, more so than just keeping a human safe from their own kind, more than allowing the human to put a weapon against him, more than using a human’s own language to talk to it. Castiel was losing himself to this human, curiosity and attention and energy all completely focused on _Sammy_. The very worst of it was Castiel’s mind knew he wasn’t just a human but a Sam and not an androgynous ‘it’ but a very male, very important _he_.

Sam was the kind of human that Castiel would very much like to touch. The knife dug deeper into his neck, a tickling cool ran down his collar bone. He must’ve leant closer without realizing it. Sam was still wide eyed, staring at Castiel with a blank and open and entirely awestruck expression. And this was based purely on Jimmy Novak’s facial mannerisms as Castiel had hardly ever interacted with a human being like this before. Sam’s lips were parted, slow, unsteady breaths filtered in and out and Castiel’s eyes were drawn to them.

He didn’t know why he was so intrigued by Sam’s mouth, had never been so enamored with his own, but that wasn’t a fair comparison. Sam’s was very pink, and once he’d bitten into the plush flesh, in pain maybe, and it grew red and thick and Castiel would frown harder. He liked it especially when it formed words, malleable and tender, shaping the syllables. Of course all of this was gleaned from only a short sentence of human language but he was already enthralled. Castiel blamed the unfinished Saving for his hook, his snag on Sam and the way he could light up a human soul.

“H-how,” Sam stuttered out, scrunched his expression tight for a fraction of a second, released. He laid fierce eyes on Castiel. The kind of hard look that could pin him to the spot, nevermind the burning in his chest that had flared to encompass the pit of his stomach. “Where did you get that name?” Sam said instead, and the blade changed angle, pushing under the sliced skin.

His voice was deep, husky with a warning lilt that Castiel had heard from enough bloodthirsty hunters to recognize. The sound should have tripped some sort of self-preservation trigger, some need to find safety or fight. His feathers quivered like a surge of electricity and it spread throughout his good wing in a way that was anything but unpleasant. Castiel inwardly cursed his disgustingly responsive wings, always exposing emotions he’d rather keep to himself. It was definitely not okay to express accidental secondhand affection for a human that would cut his jugular without remorse.

Castiel’s momentary silence earned him a deeper cut in the side of his neck, Sam pressing forward with an expression that had morphed from tense patience to something vicious. A grimace exposed white teeth, another look that Castiel was familiar with. He had enough mind to get the blade off of his throat, couldn’t allow a human (even Sam) to threaten him as if he were weak enough to be at its mercy. He may be injured but he was hardly in such a state that he couldn’t keep a wounded human in check.

It was effortless and he actually found a small amount of satisfaction in wrenching the blade free, tossing it aside, and pinning Sam’s (admittedly large) body flat to the ground. The breath whooshed out of his mouth with an oof and a groan that could’ve been from the gouge in his shoulder. It had recently stopped bleeding through his shirt, but it was definitely still tender. The other angel had done that to him with his own knife. Castiel had seen it from a ways off. Sam stabbed into the dirt and struggling to survive, the other angel’s pale, spindly hands touching his face, trying to kill him, to Save him.

Castiel would have just let it happen, with a broken wing and a seared shoulder because of these humans, he would have gladly helped her scrape at another’s existence. But then a scrutiny of the broad-shouldered, impossibly tall man leant towards some familiar memories, memories soaked in the blue-hued glow of a soul’s love. _Sammy._ Castiel’s eyes met his, wide and searching and scared. And Castiel was angry. He was so angry, angrier than he could ever remember since being Borne into this human body.

He had killed that angel without mercy and he would do it again given the chance. Her fingers had been so close to dipping into that pool of water, Sam’s very essence, everything that made him who he is. Everything that made a human soul so enamored that just his name lit it up like the night sky. She would ruin Sam, take all of the pieces until there was nothing left, keep him all inside her. Castiel couldn’t allow that. Nobody was touching Sam’s soul.

Sam was flailing. Or trying to. Castiel had his arms restrained at the biceps and it took one knee slamming into his back for Castiel to firmly plant himself on his thighs, effectively straddling him. Sam’s mouth twisted into a snarl, the veins in the column of his neck stood out. “Lemme go!” he growled through his teeth and jerked hard with his left side. If Castiel hadn’t been blessed with his superior strength he would have very likely freed himself. Instead all he accomplished was tearing that knife wound in his shoulder more severely, a fresh wave of hot blood seeping through the plaid of his flannel, gurgling from the open gash.

Castiel could see the pain flood Sam’s face and he huffed through his nose, shoving Sam’s shoulder back down, hard enough to momentarily stun him. Taking advantage of the lapse, Castiel pressed the heel of his palm into the wound and felt a surge of power course down his arm, shining through his hand. Sam hissed, writhing frantically under the pressure.

The torn, jagged flesh seared together beneath Castiel’s calluses, he could feel it stitch back into one piece like a graft of new skin. It was instantaneous, something Sam would miss with just a blink. But he knew from experience that the disappearance of pain was what one noticed first and foremost. As expected, Sam gasped, mouth open wide as he jerked his head to the side, straining to see. Castiel peeled his hand away from the smooth, hard flesh of Sam’s shoulder, allowing him to stare at it incredulously.

Castiel wanted to preen when Sam ripped his gaze back to him, lips trembling as if he wanted to speak but couldn’t quite, eyes glazed in some kind of awe. His wings puffed up on their own, more than a little proud of himself for managing to heal such a deep wound.

But the flare of his feathers was involuntary and jostled the mangled bones of his injured wing. Sudden agony zinged up the appendage and down Castiel’s spine, accompanied by an abrupt wave of nausea that engulfed him and sent him reeling. His vision swayed to the left, black spots appearing and disappearing rapidly and his human stomach flopped.

Everything was shaking and Castiel raised his hands closer to his eyes to try and see them clearly. Why was he vibrating, shuddering? It felt like his human body was instances from collapse, head swimming, pain singing, hands outside of his control. It must’ve always been on this precipice, just moments from completely shutting down, but not until he used the last of his power to heal up Sam did it finally take him out.

His sight went dark and he felt the world shift, his frame falling forward. The last thing he registered consciously was the hard planes of Sam’s body knocking the air out of his lungs.

Castiel had never dreamt before. Uriel had said that their kind did not need to sleep the way that humans did. He had explained its relation to angels not having human souls, therefore they did not need slumber, the body was nothing but a shell that they occupied. It was not something they needed to take care of. Castiel, curious and maybe naive, decided to close his eyes and drift into a state of unconsciousness despite Uriel’s words. He awoke after some moments and he didn’t feel any different, only that he’d lost time. So Castiel did not sleep if he could help it, because what was the use in that?

Falling unconscious, unable to stay afloat in the violent waters of reality, however, had happened to Castiel a handful of times. It was roughly the same, time suddenly unaccounted for, as if he’d simply blinked for too long. He didn’t enjoy these moments of vulnerability, and he never expected anything different from inky black when they did occur.

And yet. Castiel found himself standing in a clearing, wings miraculously unharmed. He knew this must be something like the concept of dreaming. It was an act that he only had vague recollections of through Jimmy Novak’s memories, strange flashes of seemingly impossible things happening in a random sequence during sleep. The clearing Castiel stood in was surrounded by what must have been his imagination’s attempt at the forest he’d been living in for the past months.

Castiel couldn’t be entirely sure, as the forest was made up of the darker, obscure ghosts of trees. The entire world itself to Castiel’s eyes was dim, only faint lighter outlines (as if backlit by the sun) even distinguished tree from tree from rock. A slow blink and it all just looked like one black, gray, green nebulous mass instead of the forest his brain was trying to recreate. Castiel turned and scanned every direction he could possibly look and even sometimes the same direction twice.

Nothing but dark could-be trees. Castiel frowned, unsure of what the point of this world was, why his mind had conjured up this dim, empty place. He knew that not all dreams were symbolic of something, more than likely they were just the obfuscating, spastic images of the brain when the body was inactive. But he couldn’t quite disregard the feeling that this was supposed to mean something to him.

The world flashed then, lit up the amorphous black of the forest into a blinding white that left Castiel momentarily sightless. His hand had raised to cover his eyes, protect them from the sudden light like a rolling wave, wings curling at his side, prepared to keep him safe. Moments passed and Castiel carefully lowered his fingers to find the forest had returned to its earlier perception, dim and ambiguous. Except now, upon a full sweep of the clearing, Castiel could see small pinpricks of reddish-yellow fires.

Or they were wispy and bright in the way that flame was, tendrils curling upwards and dissipating only to be replaced with more. But they were floating off the ground, or where Castiel perceived the ground to be in this dream. They were moving through the air, Castiel counted six of them and only one was within a couple clearings distance. They were far spread in between, all seeming individual of the others and they all addled towards a fixed point that seemed so far away to him.

The fixed point that these fires gravitated towards was just another, less vibrant fire. It was smaller, and it wasn’t red-yellow, it was a flicker between pink and blue. Back and forth, back and forth, the little fire went almost impossible for Castiel to make out with its distance. But all the other flames were drawn to it, steadily making their ways in its direction, coming from all sides.

The entire thing made little sense to Castiel. Even when he tilted his head to the right and regarded it sternly. It seemed like it was just some nonsensical product of his mind’s unstable state. Fire moving towards fire, drawn to it. Castiel was just disregarding the whole ordeal when something flickered at the very bottom of his vision.

He looked down and a tiny red-yellow fire kindled right inside his chest, licking up at his throat. It flickered blue just for an instant.

A discomfort, something Castiel had been feeling in the very recesses of his mind since he arrived in this strange place, suddenly escalated exponentially. The mild twinge catapulted into a tearing, aching, grinding _pain_ that ripped Castiel from this world and had him gasping back to reality like a drowning man. He was on his stomach, and the hollow bones of his injured wing were cracking against each other, shredding tendons and setting his nerve endings on fire.

He instinctively made to scramble away from the agony but it only made it worse, a choked sob escaping past gritted teeth. Something was holding his wing, something was _touching it_ , something- Castiel whipped his head around fully intending to rip whatever it was to shreds. He went rigid at the sight, his entire body bristling, hairs standing on end all across his skin.

Sam was ignoring his desperate attempts at freedom, a liberal amount of gauze unwound from its roll hanging from his teeth. He cut a stern and extremely sharp look in Castiel’s direction, fingers holding tight to the only intact ends of the wing. “Mm tryna fix it,” he spat around the gauze and stared Castiel down, refusing to relent his grip.

Castiel’s teeth were on edge, he felt as if things were crawling all over him just beneath the surface and he wanted to tear his wing free despite the irreparable damage it would inevitably cause. There was nothing more unsettling, more distressing than the feel of something alive deliberately touching an angel’s wings. It set off some kind of natural flight instinct, shot Castiel’s body full of buzzing electricity, he was practically thrumming with it.

His wing shuddered massively in Sam’s hand and a fresh influx of raw pain ran straight to his spine. Involuntarily, his body sagged onto his hands, forearms trembling under the weight and the sheer level of suffering the broken wing caused him. Castiel wouldn’t have the strength to even stay upright, let alone jerk his injured limb free. He didn’t move.

Sam took his static for the acquiescence that it was and edged around him on his knees, gently guiding the huge black wing with him. Spurts of pain twinged with each subtle shift, but Castiel refused to fall again, staring resolutely at the rocky edge of the cliffside. He felt Sam’s long fingers carefully fold his wing in just a way that would lay it flat against his back, the primary feathers swinging up to be perpendicular with the ground. The position wasn’t uncomfortable and was commonly how an angel managed to lie on its back without hurting the hollow bones.

“This okay?” Sam asked, hands keeping the wing in place. Castiel realized he would have to use his human vocal chords again, human language if there was any hope of getting Sam’s hands off his wings. Even if the skin-crawling sensation had dulled somewhat, with the perceived threat diminished significantly. It took a fair amount of concentration and thought to keep from spilling out Enochian and piercing Sam’s eardrums.

“Yes.” He chose a simple reply. One that didn’t leave room for misinterpretation. Sam placed the gauze against the wing, Castiel could feel its adhesive cling to the feathers and he winced, as Sam began to wind it around his torso. He held the wing’s position with one hand and rolled the gauze along Castiel’s chest and ribs and back over the wing. A warmth pushed against the uninjured wing and Castiel registered it as Sam’s palm, pushing it up and out of the way of the bandaging. For some reason that touch hadn’t elicited any kind of negative reaction. Castiel didn’t dwell on it.

Soon Sam was rounding to crouch in front of Castiel, adjusting the fit of the gauze across his bare chest with deft fingers. His eyes were intent, expression harsh, as sweat beaded on his brow and wetted his hair. And Castiel was suddenly flushed with the burning in his chest, the feeling that only occurred as a byproduct of Sam’s presence. Ever since he tried to Save the human Dean and had seen the lake glow with a million stars. It wasn’t unpleasant.

“Castiel.” He seemed to only be speaking in one word increments but it was the best he could manage without completely massacring the human language. Castiel had never actually used his human throat to say things before unless he was gargling in pain. Sam’s head shot up to stare at him, huge hand engulfing Castiel’s ribcage, fingers splayed across the bandaging and his own bared skin. It was distracting in a way Castiel couldn’t quite comprehend.

“What?”

Castiel watched a bead of perspiration run down the length of Sam’s jaw, eyes following it with a strange curiosity. He never really registered the heat of sunlight, the way it would sometimes tint his skin a darker brown, pleasantly warm his naked chest and back. Castiel hardly paid attention to his own sweat, but watching the function happen right in front of him was intriguing. He wondered if it tickled sliding down Sam’s neck the way it was, he wondered what would happen should he wipe it away for him.

Sam was still staring at him in blatant confusion and maybe a fraction of suspicion, brows furrowed. Castiel concentrated on saying the right things, forming the words with his tongue behind closed lips first. “I am Castiel.” He couldn’t help if his unharmed wing spread out to its full length, extending generously and maybe a little confidently. He puffed out his feathers, preening on purpose this time, knowing the blue undertones to the black would shine better this way. Sam’s eyes ran along the wing, taking it in with slightly parted lips, hand still burning a brand into Castiel’s chest.

He looked like the Sammy from the memories for just a moment, eyes alight with wonder and the barest hint of an almost smile ghosting his lips. Castiel’s chest burned down to his stomach, an almost painfully pleasant sensation and he was struck with the abrupt realization that this might be human affection. The sort of thing he gleaned from Dean’s soul, the very real reason for his preoccupation with Sam--the human Dean’s _Sammy._ Castiel couldn’t help but wonder just the slightest if the the things he felt when Sam was near were merely the ghosts of what Dean constantly felt or if they were genuinely Castiel’s own. It shouldn’t have mattered as much as it did. Absently, he noted the sudden cool air brushing his chest in the spaces where Sam’s fingers had rested just seconds earlier.

“You tried to kill my brother,” Sam suddenly said, voice cutting through the quiet of late afternoon. He sat back on his haunches and eyed Castiel’s expression like he could read him, could see the dilemma he was mulling over with increasing distress.

Castiel blinked at Sam, processing that. He couldn’t quite tell if he’d known that Sam was the human Dean’s brother. It could have been strained from the soul but it wasn’t a detail he would’ve paid special attention to. In any case, Castiel believed that all humans would take exception to attempts at killing their families as he did his own, and he tactfully kept his mouth shut. He didn’t think Sam expected a reply.

“Why didn’t you finish it? You guys,” Sam laughed, a bitter breath of a thing, and a wry smile exposed white teeth. He shook his head, glancing down at the blood splattered across his boots. “You guys never leave one unfinished. Even if it kills you.”

Castiel inhaled and the gauze pulled uncomfortably, his wing twinged. He wanted to open his mouth, he wanted to say it was because he’d gotten shot. That was all, the bullet wound had thrown him and he didn’t think it was worth the risk. But that would be a lie and Castiel had a sneaking suspicion that Sam would know it was a lie. He hadn’t finished it, hadn’t Saved Dean because of what he’d seen inside of Dean. Castiel was weak, he was naive, he knew all this. He didn’t have it in him to completely sever that bond, the kind of connection that did that to a soul. He couldn’t.

But he wasn’t going to tell Sam that either. There was no way he could translate those sentiments into the proper words, given them the proper gravity. Instead, he asked what he knew Sam had been burning to ask him ever since he first said his name. “What happened to Dean?” Castiel didn’t miss the way Sam’s forearms tensed noticeably, veins prominent, restraining himself.

“Don’t,” he hissed through clenched teeth, eyes dark. “Don’t you say his name.” Sam pushed to his feet then, turning his attention away from Castiel and offering his back. The slope of his shoulders was tense like a taut string. Castiel wondered though if his obvious disregard for his safety meant that he trusted Castiel on some level. The Sam he had seen through Dean’s eyes was not the kind of hunter to turn his back on an angel. And Castiel was hardly so injured that he couldn’t kill Sam if he really wanted to.

Sam ran rough fingers through his hair, knotting it into a fist at the base of his neck. Dark tufts stuck up through the spaces in his knuckles and Castiel eyed them arbitrarily. He felt too small, sitting on the dirt with a broken wing, and made to stand. His black slacks, the last remnants of Jimmy Novak’s wardrobe, were white with dust that he didn’t bother to brush off. He saw Sam rub furiously at his face, hard enough to leave his cheeks pink, and he turned back--all semblance of the earlier animosity melted away.

He did seem slightly surprised to see Castiel standing. “He’s in a coma,” he said, then hesitated. “I mean, he’s asleep and he won’t wake up.” Castiel wasn’t surprised, the process of Saving a human was rigorous and most often left them completely erased. Even just some of that kind of power was enough to put a human into an immobile state. “And his skin is glowing. Like an angels’. It goes light and dark sporadically, I’ve never seen or read anything like that before.”

Castiel paused, dark wing rustling across the dirt in a pensive manner. That, however, was nothing he had ever heard of. A human with the power of an angel? Or did it have the power? Perhaps it was residual, just some sort of trace left on his soul, some of Castiel’s essence. The coma was nothing, if Castiel wanted to he could easily wake a human from something like that. A simple burst of power to the forehead would have Sam’s brother conscious and talking with minimal delay. But the light in his skin was something entirely different. It was the kind of side effect that Castiel needed to see in front of him to get a proper analysis. Was it a dull glow of an angel’s visit or the bright blinding righteous power thrumming through its veins?

“You can help him.” It wasn’t a question, Sam just said it. His eyes had been tracking the thoughts across Castiel’s face, following every thread that came and went without missing a beat. Castiel wondered where Sam had learned to read a human face like that, certainly not from his brother, else Castiel would have seen it.

Castiel shook his head slowly, casting a glance at his surroundings, the sinkhole of sorts that the both of them had managed to stumble into. Cliffside edged all around, higher than Castiel was tall and certainly not manageable with a broken wing taped to his back. His eyes fell back on Sam, narrowed as the setting sun cast them both in an orange hue. “I can wake him up.”

The expression that lit up Sam’s face was enough to bring back that sensation that Castiel could no longer lay complete claim to. Where before it pleased him to feel such a warmth, blooming across his entire front, and engulfing him, now it only made him wonder. What about Sam’s grateful smile, the crooked one that made his cheek split, brought forth this rush of fondness? Castiel did not know Sam. He was a hunter who would’ve tried to slit Castiel’s throat if not for his brother. And what was to stop him after Castiel woke Dean up?

“Please, Castiel,” and the way his name fell from Sam’s mouth, the voice that had calmed him when he was scared, had Castiel’s wings fluttering in tandem with his human heart beat. “Please help him, I’ll do anything you want, anything.”

Castiel sighed, a very human gesture that Jimmy Novak was wont to do, and tried to calm the thud-thud of the heavy organ in his chest. Anything, Sam promised, and Castiel could take, take, take from that. A touch to Sam’s soul, just a short glimpse to feel it, see what the inside of someone so amazing that another soul was positively radiating with it was like. He wanted, but he wouldn’t or maybe he couldn’t. Either way, Castiel was better off not requesting things that would send Sam running for his life, even if it was to save his brother. Castiel couldn’t expect Sam to make that kind of decision, didn’t want to see the indecision play like a war across his face.

Instead, he gestured to the cliffs surrounding them with a wave of his left wing. He pretended not to notice the way Sam’s eyes followed it, attentive. Didn’t want to know if Sam’s face was closed off with suspicion or wide open with fascination at the sight of his full-stretched wing. Castiel shuddered once, just the feathers, and arranged his words into their proper places. “You know I can’t fly with this,” he shrugged his right shoulder, the bound and broken wing taped tight to his back. “I can’t climb these walls either.”

He couldn’t ask outright. Even if he was Sam, he was still human, and there was something inherently degrading about asking a human for help.

Sam raised his eyebrows and turned to the cliffs that were only a short ways above his head, with that height. “You want me to help you get out of here?” he asked slowly, like he didn’t quite understand. Castiel hoped he wouldn’t point out the obvious fact that he was going to help him out of here no matter what Castiel asked for. It was the only way he could wake up his brother. “Uh, okay. Yeah sure.”

 

~

 

“If we’re gonna do this, you’re gonna have to trust me, Castiel,” Sam said, or really grunted through his teeth from where he lay on his stomach, arms outstretched. There really had been no two ways about getting out of this weird natural bowl of sorts, and that was Sam swinging himself free with minimal effort and then tugging the angel up after him. But Castiel seemed to be having reservations about trusting Sam to not drop him or even worse, come falling down on top of him.

Sam would be the first to admit that he and the angel--Castiel, because _god_ they had names--definitely had trust issues to work on, but he didn’t really have all night to be swinging his arms over a cliff edge. Castiel frowned up at him, an expression that seemed almost perpetually on his face. It wasn’t the type of frown that accompanied anger or even apathy, Castiel just looked that way. Like a man who needed a pair of glasses, always narrowed-eyed.

“I don’t trust your strength, Sam,” the angel corrected, his hands hanging limply at his sides as he made no attempt to take Sam’s wiggling fingers. The sun had sunk below the horizon in the hour it took Sam to gather up his things, eat the remainder of his food, and formulate some sort of direction for the both of them. He was still a little blurry on the details, but he was going to get Castiel into Salvage somehow and he was gonna wake Dean up. If anyone so much as pointed a gun at the angel, Sam would have them on the ground in seconds. Even if it was John. Which was entirely not something he wanted to think about.

“Look, either you learn to trust my strength or stay down there to die, pick one.” Castiel was a very strange angel. Not that Sam was very knowledgeable when it came to angels and what could constitute normal as he wasn’t even sure they could talk until very recently. But in a strictly human sense Castiel was strange. Sam could say things like he’d just said and not get a single scowl for his trouble, but the second he even behaved in a physically assertive manner over the angel, Castiel was taking him to the ground or puffing out his wings.

Castiel twisted his mouth and glanced over his shoulder at the wing Sam had carefully bound to him, in a procedure Amelia had offhandedly told him about for birds. _Just bind the wing in a resting position to its body and don’t forget to go under the opposite wing, watch its feet!_ Though Sam hadn’t needed to worry about Castiel’s feet when he was winding the gauze tight to his torso. Sam still wasn’t sure why he’d done it, wrapped the angel up, helped the thing that tried to kill Dean.

Maybe because the angel had just healed him--apparently a thing that angels could do to humans as well as themselves, although Castiel’s unconsciousness afterwards leant toward Sam’s idea that the healing process was somewhat exhaustive. Or maybe Sam helped him because Castiel had just passed out on top of him and he’d looked so much smaller when he was out cold, wings limp at his sides.

Sam was mulling when he felt callused hands wrap around his own, gripping tight enough to grind his knuckles. He didn’t complain about the force though, bracing himself hard on his knees and pulling upwards. Castiel levered his bare feet against the rock side, putting every bit of his weight into Sam’s hold. Not all that surprisingly, he was rather light for an angel in the body of a full grown man. The only way he’d ever manage to get in the air.

It only took one hard jerk to bring Castiel topside, Sam didn’t laugh even a little when the angel tumbled unceremoniously onto his uninjured side with a grunt. Sam shoved off the soil and readjusted his bag on his back. Castiel was checking the gauze bandage, fiddling with it, and brushing dirt off. He glanced blue eyes over to Sam. “You have a leaf in your hair,” he said plainly, staring so hard at the offending vegetation, Sam knew exactly where it was to brush off.

“Thanks,” Sam murmured instinctively, still completely unsure as to what he should make of the angel. On top of the massive revelation that angels could talk, Sam had learned they were intelligent, if not smarter than humans, and with that came a whole slew of new questions. Like why didn’t they do what humans did if they were so hyper aware? Why allow their kind to be slaughtered individually instead of going in packs? A whole community of angels could wipe out half the state without breaking a sweat. That was one of the key reasons that everyone had just believed they were mindless.

“Where is your brother at, Sam?” Castiel asked in the quiet of dusk, the thin layer of gray that coated everything serving as a prelude for the night time chorus of insects. Sam cast his eyes around, had only been in the floodplains maybe a handful of times at night.

“Dean’s at Salvage. But we gotta get my bike-” Sam hesitated. He needed Dean’s motorbike, he wasn’t going to leave his brother’s baby out in the middle of the forest and on top of that it had a radio hooked up. If there was even the slightest hope of getting Castiel anywhere near Salvage without getting shot in the head, they needed that radio. Unfortunately said bike was laying in the mud right next to the rotting corpse of the angel who’d been with Castiel when the hunt happened. There was no telling how that would play out.

“Your bike?” Castiel turned to look up at him, prompting for the rest. Sam swallowed hard and wondered just how weakened the angel actually was with only one wing. He might be able to take him, after all Sam was the one with the .45 tucked in his waistband and the machete in his chest holster. He needed to be able to hold his own if the angel got pissed off for Sam’s family having killed its friend.

“Why were you and that other angel taking our patrolmen?” Sam asked, itching to step close and in Castiel’s personal space the way he did to make other guys back down. His sheer size did the trick with no move on his part but a short step forward. He wanted to, but the last time he’d stuck something dangerous near the angel he had slammed him into the dirt and proven himself highly capable of killing Sam.

Castiel’s expression was one that Sam found fairly easy to read, the emotions (human emotions) flitted across his features the way they did across a child’s. Someone who was unaccustomed to hiding his own feelings when he had a face.

“I don’t know.” Castiel was succinct and he stared at Sam with those eyes that still managed to shine in the dark.

“What do you mean you don’t know? That other one was your partner right?” Sam faltered, his sentence finishing despite the thought that had just occurred to him. Maybe they weren’t partners, maybe Castiel hadn’t even known that angel, like he hadn’t known the one that tried to kill Sam. Castiel had ended that blonde one without mercy and he didn’t seem to be experiencing regret as he stood in front of Sam, signature deep furrow in his brow. Maybe the reason angels didn’t band together to take out the human race was because they hated each other so goddamn much.

“He was my superior. He didn’t tell me many things,” Castiel said and he glanced aside as if he found the bark of the oak tree particularly interesting. “It doesn’t matter now, Uriel was killed.” Sam bit his cheek and expected some sort of backlash but Castiel just continued to frown at the tree, no blame or fury. It seemed to Sam like resignation, acceptance. Maybe Castiel hadn’t been very close with the other angel. He had said that he was his superior. Did angels have ranks? Was there some sort of system? Sam burned to ask, but there was more pressing things to worry about, especially with time running out before John would inevitably come after him.

“Where is your bike?” Castiel said suddenly, turning back to Sam.

“Not far from here,” he pointed south. “I- it’s next to um, Uriel’s body.”

Castiel’s expression didn’t so much as twitch. He turned on his heel and began following the trampled path left from Sam’s chase with the blonde angel. Sam had actually had trouble finding it exactly in the darkness, hardly making out the trees before they were right in front of him. Castiel’s smaller form was easier to focus on and Sam made to follow.

The putrid smell hit Sam before anything else, familiar and rotten and permeating, it sent his gag reflex twitching, a threat of vomit. Castiel seemed otherwise unaffected by it, coming to a stop just beside the decomposing mess. Fortunately for Dean, his bike was far enough to the wayside to avoid getting anything on its black surface, lying on its side. The light from the radio was red and blinked bright in the inky black.

Sam fished the flashlight from his bag, the sun gone and the stars dark, blotted out by unseen clouds. He shined it around the body, trying his best not to see it and made his way around the unattached wing, still gray and immaculate despite the human body’s complete and utter rot. Sam was once again plagued by the curious question of why angels’ wings were different colors as he lifted the motorbike and started wheeling it away from the gory scene. Bobby’s journals had theorized that the color might be related to the strength of the angel, as those with darker wings were generally easier to hunt. But it was only speculation.

With Castiel’s mention of rank, Sam was starting to think it may very well be plausible. Castiel had remained silent, following after Sam until they were far enough away that the smell was almost completely undetectable. They reached the huge boulder that Sam used as one of the many landmarks in his mental blueprint and he used that to prop up the bike, its kickstand useless in the soil.

The receiver was hooked in a plastic holster on the right handlebar, and he plucked that off. Castiel stood beside him, hands hanging at his sides and tilted his head at the radio. “I didn’t know bikes had those,” he stated, a curious lilt to his voice. Sam quirked his lips and wondered just how much Castiel knew about everything humans had or did. Surely he must when he’d been in so many heads.

“They don’t. Dean did this, it’s more convenient for him I guess.” A fresh burst of fondness washed over him, enough to make the ever-present ache in his chest twist hard. He shook his head, because he was bringing an angel, the angel, back. And Dean would be okay, he’d be fine. “I’m gonna radio Salvage so they know we’re coming. I don’t wanna have to jump in front of bullet for you when the hunters see us.”

Castiel stared at him with those blue eyes and Sam pushed the buttons on the side of the receiver, holding it to his mouth. “Hey Ash, it’s Sam,” he said, and he could just imagine Dean’s eyeroll. His brother always went to town with the thing, all ‘ _Home base this is Delta Whiskey, over_.’ He released the top button and waited, static buzzing in the silence. Nothing.

Sam glanced up at Castiel with a frown. Ash always radioed back immediately, he was their computer guy as well as head of the radio waves so he was always within reach of their emergency frequency. Ash had been the one to rig up the radio tower and rewire the handhelds back into working order. If Salvage hadn’t gotten him, they’d still be shouting at each other across camp. He pressed both buttons again. “Ash? This is Sam. Are you there?”

The static continued. Sam frowned and turned his attention to the radio itself, mounted on the bike, and blinking the time at him. Half past eight. All of its settings were still spot on and it seemed fine. He hit it, a sharp tap with the flat of his palm and tried again but still silence.

“Is something wrong?” Castiel asked and he looked concerned enough, typical furrowed brow raised it an expression that was reminiscent of the dogs that occasionally showed up outside Salvage. Pitiable and way too disarming. Sam sighed, shoving the receiver back into its holster.

“I don’t know. I think something might be jamming the signal.” He hoped something was, at least that would mean everyone back home was safe. “I’ll try again when we get closer. If I’m not back by sunrise they’ll send hunters after me and that’s a higher risk of you getting killed.”

Castiel nodded and looked down at Dean’s bike as Sam pulled it off the boulder. They started walking again, Sam retracing the path he had taken that morning. As long as they didn’t run into anything else, he was pretty sure he could get them back before John flipped his shit. He was honestly surprised the angel was complying with this whole situation, an entire camp filled with hunters was not a place he’d leave alive if Sam was planning something.

Unless Castiel knew something Sam didn’t know. Which only made his stomach roll, a sinking in his chest that had everything to do with Ash not answering his call. Salvage had better be okay.

 

~

 

Jo’s head rested on her hand, elbow sinking into the cushion of the mattress. She leisurely traced the glowing veins that spider-webbed down Dean’s right forearm, her index finger dragging across his soft skin in a feather light touch. She’d done as promised, staying at his side ever since Sam left that morning, watching his chest rise and fall, his body otherwise motionless.

There had been some commotion a couple hours prior when the angel that had been seen at the East gate got killed. Apparently the suicidal thing had just touched down like twenty feet outside the wire and started walking towards them as if they weren’t all pointing guns at it. John Winchester had shot its left wing completely off with a shotgun and then another blast to the skull ended it right there at the gate.

The whole thing was really weird and the subject of Jo’s drifting thoughts. They had never had an angel come so close to Salvage deliberately. It was practically a death wish and the thing never stood a chance. She couldn’t imagine why the hell an angel would drift so close. According to the report Amelia got via radio about the incident, it wasn’t injured and seemed entirely cognizant of its actions. And it’d put up a decent fight for being so disadvantaged. With John, Ellen, and the two kids on Watch, the angel would’ve been lucky to even touch the gate let alone actually do some damage.

“How’re you doing?” Amelia suddenly said, pushing past the curtain and coming up behind her. Jo didn’t raise her head, just continued running along the orange veins. She’d given up speculating on what was causing them hours ago when her brain could only manage to supply Bobby’s earlier ‘angel mojo’ theory.

“Good, I guess,” she answered with a sigh. Amelia put her hand on her shoulder and gave a gentle shake.

“I know it seems impossible now, but Dean will be okay,” she said and her voice was quiet but sure. “Sam’s not gonna let him stay like this.”

Jo agreed. If anyone could fix Dean it was his little brother, wherever he’d gone. Krissy Chambers, a girl on the South Watch, had come to visit Dean on break. She got shifty when Jo mentioned Sam leaving to Bobby’s library and Jo had pressed and pressed until she finally said Sam had left through the South gate. Jo wasn’t even in the least bit surprised, but she wondered where he had gone and what he’d hoped to accomplish going out there alone.

If anything she was pissed at him for not asking her to come too. She could have helped him find the monster that hurt Dean, she could’ve helped kill it. Instead, she was being absolutely useless at Dean’s bedside hoping he’d be okay but not actually doing anything about it. Jo’s fist clenched under her chin and she wished Sam was there so she could punch him in the face.

The metal door to Medical burst open, swinging hard enough to slam against the wall. Both women jumped and Amelia’s husband Don came stumbling in. He was limping, cuts and bruises on his face and his gun hanging loosely from its strap around his torso. Amelia was immediately at his side, tugging his arm around her shoulders and guiding him to an empty bed.

“What happened?” she demanded, her voice hard. Jo stared with wide eyes as Don shook his head, hand up as if to calm Amelia.

“I’m fine, just,” he winced, peeling his shirt sleeve up to reveal red soaked bandages. “Just need this redressed.” Amelia nodded and steadied him once before turning and gathering up the necessities from the back.

Jo frowned. “What’s going on?” she asked across the room, pulling away from Dean and heading over. She made sure to stay out of Amelia’s way when she returned and began tearing away the soiled gauze. Don squinted at her.

“Angels. Two of them at the North gate, they- ah,” he hissed when the wound was exposed, face scrunching up in pain. “Hunters are down there, Ellen and John have been holding ‘em off. I was helping out but the damned skin tore open again.”

“Do they need help?” Jo demanded immediately, thoughts jumping at the thought of her mom out there fighting with two angels. _Two angels, shit._ Why were so many coming so close?

Amelia cut Jo a look and Don shrugged his other shoulder. “Yeah, you a hunter?” he asked, obviously unable to recognize her in his state. Whatever state that was, maybe a concussion or something.

“Ellen’s my mom, give me your gun,” she demanded. Don shot her an incredulous look and Amelia scowled.

“Jo,” she said, warning.

“Amelia. I gotta help, I know how to work a rifle. I could kill a few of those sons of bitches.” Jo was already stepping over to Don. He didn’t stop her when she unhooked the rifle from its strap, checking to make sure it was loaded. Amelia grabbed the antiseptic, pouring it over Don’s wound.

“Be careful,” was all she said but Jo was already rushing out the doors. The North gate was probably a mile to the left of Medical, Jo was already sprinting to get down there, heart pounding adrenaline. There was no way she was gonna let her mom fend off those goddamn monsters by herself. Not when she could help.

She heard the gunfire before she saw it, loud cracks filling the air and she couldn’t believe it was so silent back at Medical. Her body vibrated with each shot and she rounded a building to see the boy on Watch firing from the tower, down at an angel maybe fifteen feet from the gate. It’s wings were black as night and they flared with each bullet that whizzed past.

Jo’s eyes were searching out the other one, her mom, John Winchester, anyone else. She saw them to the left of the gate entrance, Ellen was emptying a magazine into the back of another dark winged angel. This one was advancing towards John who was much farther out than any hunter should be when angels were around. It looked like he was luring it away.

Her stomach lurched and Jo rushed to the entrance. Her mom and John were two of the best hunters in the whole damn camp, if anyone could take on an angel it would be those two. Which meant she’d be much more helpful shooting the other angel in the heart. Whoever was on Watch was trying his damndest to get the thing, but it was moving too quick, deftly side-winding towards Salvage. He didn’t have aim like Jo did.

She was just lifting Don’s rifle, bracing the butt against her shoulder, when something came swooping in. At first all she registered was a pair of white wings, huge and encompassing, and a flash of bright red hair. Then her view of the black winged angel she’d plan to shoot was obstructed by what looked like another angel in the body of a red-haired woman.

Jo took aim, but the redhead was putting its hand to the other angel’s head and she hesitated, eyes wide. The hand glowed like a Purification and then the black-winged angel was dropping to the ground. Jo froze. It looked- it looked dead. What the hell was going on? Did that angel just kill its own kind? On closer inspection, the redhead was dressed in what appeared to be pretty clean clothes, a shirt and jacket over that, holes cut in the back for her large, white wings.

Two things set off warning bells in Jo’s head. One being the fact that it was wearing a top, something angels never did, their wings simply tore through shirts and why would they put something else on? They were animals, they didn’t know better. Two was the fact it had white wings. Jo had never seen a white-winged angel, had only heard about them from her mom, heard they were stronger, faster. More dangerous.

Something was very off about this angel. Jo blinked, shaking herself and repositioning the rifle. But the angel had seemed to almost teleport across the plain, just in front of Ellen. Its fingers were pressing to Ellen’s forehead before Jo could even scream, “Mom!” She ripped the gate wide open and ran around it, rushing towards her mother and the white-winged angel.

Ellen suddenly crumpled to ground, gun falling to the side. The angel’s attention had already diverted to John and the other creature when Jo reached her mom. She dropped her rifle and fell to her knees, pulling Ellen up into her lap. She felt for a pulse, tears burning behind her eyes, throat constricting. She couldn’t be dead, she was- Jo bit her lip hard enough to bleed. She was all she had, dammit.

Two fingers felt a steady thud-thud beneath the skin and Jo sobbed with relief, clutching Ellen close. The sound of a gun going off, had her jerking her attention to John who was holding the red-haired angel at the end of his shotgun. The black winged one he’d been luring away before was in a heap in the grass, unmoving. Had the redhead killed that one too or John?

The two of them were at a standstill, the barrel of John’s gun pressing into the angel’s chest. He could’ve been pulling the trigger, but he wasn’t, just staring at it with narrowed eyes. _Kill it,_ Jo thought, _just fucking shoot it._ But John didn’t move.

“What are you?” His voice was low and hard as steel. Jo had no idea what he was doing, everyone knew angels couldn’t talk, let alone understand people. Just because this one was killing its own didn’t mean it was any different.

The angel smiled, and its human face was pretty, disarming. It had probably used that to its advantage. Maybe it was doing that now. John pushed forward, digging the gun hard into the angel’s skin. It didn’t give, wings retracting close.

“My name is Anna,” the angel said, and Jo felt her heart stop. “And I just saved your life.” Before John could even react, the angel (who could _talk_ ) raised two fingers and the next thing Jo knew, John was on the ground. She didn’t have time to do anything but scream when the angel was in front of her and the world went black.

 

~

 

Sam was contemplating adding ‘seeing in the dark’ to his ever growing list of things no one else knows about angels. It was so dark he could barely see his own own hands, navigating the bike was practically impossible, and he kept hitting rocks and branches tripping and fumbling like a baby cow. Every time Castiel would pause and wait for him to right himself, a few steps ahead of him.

It got so bad that Sam had to tell Castiel what landmark he was next searching for and its general direction, just so the angel could lead the way. Not once did Sam ever see him so much as a stumble in the black, his back straight, his wings moving in and out in slow intervals. The hours had passed in companionable silence as the miles went under their feet. Sam longed to ask Castiel questions, questions about the angel hierarchy if there was one, questions about being an angel and the human that used to own that body, questions about Castiel himself.

But Sam kept his mouth shut because he didn’t want to say the wrong thing, risk Castiel changing his mind now that he was free and could easily leave him there in the dark. He settled simply for letting his mind race on its own and keeping his eyes trained on the shifting shoulder blades of Castiel’s back. They’d stopped two hours earlier to try and radio in again. It was still static and Sam was getting increasingly uneasy. He’d never gotten radio silence from the emergency frequency the bike was set to before. And the only possible reasons were a damaged radio or something damaged on Salvage’s side. The thought made his gut clench.

Sam was so lost in his head, he ran straight into Castiel. A wing fluttered in his face and his chest bounced off the angel’s back making him falter backwards, bike rolling with him. Castiel didn’t so much as lean forward. He glanced over his shoulder with a straight face, hopefully not as humored by Sam’s seemingly endless clumsiness as Sam thought he ought to be. “This is the tree,” he said, indicating with a wave of a wing to the large trunk at Sam’s right.

It was an oak that had grown almost parallel to the ground, hovering at a few inches from the grass and as fat around as three people. It made a decent bench and served as Sam’s one mile marker. They were fast approaching and he had yet to tell them about Castiel. “We’re close now. Let me try and radio one last time. If they still don’t answer, I might have to go in alone first.”

The idea was not appealing to Sam in the least, it gave Castiel time to reconsider his decision (something Sam was surprised he’d yet to do) and it meant he’d have to convince John Winchester to trust an angel to his face. It was one thing to beg over the airwaves, it was an entirely different beast to stand in front of him and ask that he believe in the thing that killed his wife and put his son in a coma.

Sam’s heart was in his throat as he held down the two buttons. “Can anyone hear me?” Release. Static. Castiel scratched the scruff on his face and as they both waited, Sam wondered if angels aged the way humans did, why Castiel didn’t have a full beard unless he purposely shaved it that way. The thought seemed ridiculous.

“I’ve been thinking about something,” Castiel said, hand falling to his side. Nothing but static played through the speakers and Sam released the bottom button, effectively plunging them into silence.

“What’s that?” Sam prompted, replacing the receiver with a sinking feeling.

“I noticed your expression when you mentioned having to go into Salvage alone,” he said and Sam turned to stare at him. “It seemed you don’t want to. You should know that I’m not intimidated by hunters or their home. I can go with you.”

Sam frowned, confused. What was Castiel’s angle with this? Surely an angel, even one like Castiel (assuming they weren’t all this way), couldn’t find an advantage in walking into a place filled with people that wanted to kill it? “It’s not about me,” Sam started, his voice wavering uncertainly. “I don’t want the hunters that watch the gate to see you and shoot. They could kill you before I even get the chance to explain.”

Castiel was quiet for a moment as he seemed to turn this information over in his head. His wing, now partially lit by the blueing haze of dawn, clenched tight to his side and released. Like clenching and unclenching a fist. Finally he nodded. “Right,” he murmured, voice low. Sam blinked slowly, still unsure of what exactly Castiel was trying to accomplish here.

“We should keep going. The sun’s almost up.” He guided the bike on his own and didn’t wait to see if Castiel was following him. The forest was glowing with the mist of sunrise and Sam could finally make out the familiar foliage of the floodplains forest without help. He still didn’t know how the hell he was going to convince an entire camp of survivors to let Castiel into Salvage and his stomach roiled at the prospect.

If the roles had been reversed, if Sam had been the one lying unconscious in a hospital bed, Dean would’ve killed Castiel. Would have rather slit his throat and cut off his wings than cart him through Salvage like some sort of savior. Following that line of thought, Dean was going to kill him for bringing an angel into Medical, even if it was to save his ass.

Sam’s mind ran along this uplifting train of possible scenarios, all ending badly, until they reached the edge of the oak trees. All that remained was flat, grassland and the occasional cottonwood, nothing that could hide Castiel from a bullet. Sam could see the gate pretty clearly despite the thin fog, his eyes followed the tower to see one skinny form keeping watch. He frowned. There was never just one on Watch. That familiar dread about Salvage reared its head again and Sam swallowed hard.

The figure moved, pacing back and forth in the small area, and Sam could just make out the length of Krissy’s favorite M16. At least something was going right. Krissy Chambers could be reasoned with, Sam was (kind of) sure he could explain to her before she started blasting holes in Castiel’s wings. He saw Castiel in his peripheral, watching him and waiting, and contemplated the risks of just bringing the angel with him, like Castiel had offered.

Sam could only imagine how suspicious it would look from her vantage point though. An angel walking disturbingly close to Sam with an injured wing, for all she knew he could have a weapon trained at Sam’s back. It would be better for all three of them if Castiel hung back and waited for some sort of signal, gave Sam time to explain and maybe disarm her. As long as Castiel didn’t realize what a bad idea this was.

A tight, almost crushing grip suddenly wrapped around Sam’s biceps. “Sam!” Castiel shouted, voice stern and urgent, pointing to the left of the watchtower just a ways off the horizon. An angel, wings as black as Castiel’s, was flying right towards Krissy. It had to be the angel they’d seen at the East gate, there was no way more than one would get so close to Salvage, it was suicide. Then again, with just one kid on Watch there was no telling.

“Shit,” Sam growled, shaking his arm free of Castiel’s hand, and mounting Dean’s dirtbike. He revved the accelerator and it roared to life as he threw an offhand, probably unnecessary, “stay here” over his shoulder. Then he was spraying dirt down the beaten path towards Salvage.

The first sound of gunfire cracked and echoed past the trees, sending Sam’s nerves jumping. He whipped his head up at where the angel was furiously flapping its black wings and rearing back. It dove to dodge when the end of Krissy’s rifle flashed, the burst of another shot resounding soon after. Sam rode as hard as he possibly could, the bike groaning in protest. Two more shots, the angel jerked back in the sky, its left leg hanging limply. Sam reached the gate, skidded the bike to a stop, and jumped off. Its momentum flung it sliding into the wire of the fencing, and Sam took out his handgun and aimed.

He had four bullets left in the cartridge and he got off two, one missing and one just grazing the tail end of its wing. The angel was undeterred and Krissy’s gun went off a couple more times, but none of the bullets hit point probably because of the angel’s injured weaving. It was overhead by the time Sam lined up his barrel again and shot it in the hip, a spray of blood raining down. But then it was on the watch tower and Sam was shouting, trying to level in another shot.

It grabbed Krissy, fighting off the rifle with its brute strength, Sam struggled, pistol wavering in an attempt to get it without accidentally getting Krissy. He heard her scream, could see it jerking her over to the railing, pushing her over it. Sam fired. The bullet hit mark, embedding into the angel’s chest. The shock stunned it, toppling it forward over the edge and taking Krissy kicking down with it. Sam’s stomach plummeted, the descent nearly twenty feet, and ran to try and break her fall, catch her, anything.

The angel hit the ground hard, a sickening chorus of crunching bones, and Sam stopped just short of it. The sound of flapping wings had him aiming the (empty) .45 back up at the sky where Krissy should’ve fallen, and dammit there could _not_ be another one. The end of his gun pointed directly at Castiel, both wings outstretched to the their impressive span, beating vigorously. Sam’s shoulders sagged with relief at the sight of Krissy struggling in his hold, his fist wound tight in the material of her jacket.

He released her and she landed on her hands and knees, gasping. Sam collapsed at her side, hand on her back in gentle circles. “Hey, hey. It’s okay, you’re okay,” he murmured softly, waiting patiently for the hyperventilating to subside. A short glance up showed Castiel dropping to his feet a bit rougher than angels usually landed, the injured wing quivering violently as it curled in.

Krissy inhaled deep, trying to gather herself, and pushed Sam’s arm away as she rose to her knees. Her hands were shaking just like Castiel’s wing and she tilted her head up towards the tower she’d almost died falling from. Her chest rose with another inhale that came in quick, held, and released in a gradual exhale. Sam tucked his gun back into his waistband.

“Krissy?” He kept his voice low, underwhelming. She slid her gaze to focus on his face, pupils blown wide with the healthy dose of adrenaline no doubt pumping through her system. Her skin was washed pale, colorless and fear-stricken.

“S-Sam?” Her voice was very thin, so different from her typical confidence and determination. It was grounding to see her, shaking and afraid, reminded Sam that she really was only just a child. No matter how much the world had weathered her.

“Yeah, are you okay?”

She swallowed hard, throat bobbing, and then nodded, a short jerk. “...I-I got,” she abruptly cut herself off, her hands (down to only slight tremors) flew up to rub at her face fiercely. Her cheeks had colored with the motion, Sam noted, when she immediately flung up a finger in Castiel’s direction. To his credit, the angel did jolt at the movement. “That’s- that’s an angel, Sam.” Krissy’s dark eyes were narrowed, accusing, suspicious, and confused. But at least she didn’t look like a frightened animal anymore.

“Yeah,” Sam agreed carefully. “He’s here to help Dean, he can wake Dean up.” She flinched. And Sam realized too late that he probably shouldn’t have referred to Castiel with gender-specific pronouns. It was a sort of taboo. Humanized the monsters.

“You _trust_ it?” Krissy spat, already moving to stand up. Her knees almost buckled, legs wobbling, but she caught herself just as Sam shot to his feet. The dark look she leveled his way, through her lashes, almost had Sam faltering. Almost had him second-guessing himself. But then he saw Castiel holding Krissy just a foot from the ground and the crumpled heap of broken body that was the other angel.

“He saved your life, I didn’t ask him to. He’s going to save Dean’s. If you don’t want to trust him then trust that,” Sam said, and his tone was final and jarring. Krissy started as if about to dispute his words but she stopped and cut a glance over at Castiel, who was too busy tending to his injured wing to notice.

“What the hell are you doing, Sam?” she asked, sounding too world-weary for a fifteen year old. Her hair, windblown and sticking out all over, was slipping from its tie and she made to fix it. As she ran her fingers through it, she regarded Sam through a scowl that showed she wasn’t happy with it, but she couldn’t do anything. A sort of reluctant resignation.

“I’m helping Dean,” he said. “Like I said I would. I just need to get the angel into Salvage without getting shot at.”

Krissy sighed, heavy, and crossed her arms over her chest. “Well that won’t be hard. Angels have been hitting this place ever since you left. Like a damn magnet’s in the middle of Salvage. That one,” she flicked her wrist at the mangled angel, dead in the dirt. “Was the fourth one to just waltz right up the gate. A kid on watch got Purified. Your dad,” Sam’s stomach clenched. “Ellen, Jo, they’re all unconscious at Medical. In some kind of coma just like Dean.” Krissy paused, glanced back at Castiel again. “Think your angel can fix them too?”

Sam felt like he was going to throw up. The thought of his family, the only family he ever had, the one he’d spent years creating, gone, weak, unconscious in hospital beds was enough to send his gut lurching. Krissy must have seen the change in his face because her expression fell, almost sympathetic. She pat his upper arm. “I’m gonna get my rifle and keep up the Watch. And radio in to get some help around here too. You do what you gotta do to get those guys up and running again, okay?” Her face ducked under Sam’s hair to smile wanly, and then she was rounding him to get Dean’s bike, giving Castiel a wide berth.

Sam watched her walk the bike up to the gate, wedging her hands through the fencing to unlock it. He ran his hands through his hair, stopping just at the nape of his neck to pull hard, knuckles whiting at the force. It hurt in a distracting way and he squeezed his eyes shut hard enough to sting. When he pried them open and let his hands drop, Castiel was standing in front of him, and Sam startled trying not jerk backwards. “I heard what your friend said.” His voice took on the same soft tone Sam had used with Krissy. “I can help them too,” he said conscientiously, averting his attention to the left wing that trembled as it pressed to his chest. Sam watched, dumbstruck, as Castiel ran tentative fingers along the humerus, could see them rise with each unnatural jut of shattered bone fragment.

It washed over Sam in a staggering tidal wave, some strange form of affection and gratitude for this creature standing in front of him. An angel who’d just further injured himself to save a human he didn’t know. Who’d killed his own kind to keep Sam alive. Who’d healed Sam’s wound at the expense of his consciousness. And was now willing to walk right into what could very well be a trap, just to fix a bunch of hunters who would kill him given the chance.

“Castiel,” Sam started, the name almost catching in his constricted throat. Castiel’s eyes shot up immediately, wide and impossibly blue in the brightening sunlight, and his hand stilled on his wing, all attention completely focused on Sam. “Thank you. For what you did.” He tilted his head in the direction Krissy had disappeared. He wanted to say more, thank you for helping me, thank you for not killing my brother, thank you for letting me keep the only family I’ve ever known. But he didn’t.

Castiel quirked what might’ve been a smile, or something like it. The corner of his mouth pulling up to scrunch up his left eye, the kind of expression a sleazy guy might make when he was making a pass at a girl. And Sam wanted to snort because it was so unnatural on his face, so uncharacteristic, and then he let it drop from his face so fast Sam thought something was wrong. “No problem Sam. I am the one responsible for Dean. I owe it to the both of you.”

His use of the colloquialism made Sam scrunch up his nose, but he quickly flattened out his expression when he saw a flash in Castiel’s eyes. He opened his mouth to ask about the wing, when a shout from above them had him glancing up.

“Hey Sam!” Krissy was clutching to the bottom of the bars in the watchtower’s railing, radio in her waving hand. “I radioed Bobby. He’s coming down here. Tried to explain the sitch, but…” She trailed off in an almost ominous way. Sam clenched his jaw and waved his hand at her in acknowledgement, until she slowly retreated backwards.

Castiel was aiming a curious look at him, obviously askance of this Bobby person. But Sam didn’t feel like explaining his family life to an angel who for all intents and purposes had no such thing and might not even comprehend the concept of family not ending in blood relation. “How’s the wing?” he asked, noting that it had finally stopped shaking.

“Nothing was really healed yet, so the pain is about what it was before you bound it,” Castiel explained, using sheer force of will to pry it away from its huddled position against his chest and let it hang weakly behind him. “It’ll be okay soon.”

“Did binding it help at all?” Sam asked, couldn’t help it. He’d wanted to do something for the angel, to return the favor and heal him like he did Sam. But if even keeping the wing immobile was useless then there was little else he could do.

Castiel nodded. “Yes. I almost forgot it was broken,” he said, but his voice raised a pitch at the last few words. Sam sighed and didn’t know whether to laugh at how off that sounded, how much of a lie it must have been, or grumble because maybe he really had been useless.

“SAM!” The shout was enough to jarr Sam out of any thoughts and he leaped in the air, spinning around into an immediate defense. Bobby Singer was there, face gnarled into an expression Sam had only seen him direct at John. He threw the gate out of the way, customary trucker hat skewed on his head, and stampeded in Sam’s direction. Sam didn’t honestly expect any kind of physical attack, but Castiel seemed to. In a flash of black feathers and tan skin, the angel was between Sam and Bobby, left wing outspread to its impressive ten-foot length and feathers puffed out in an act of dominance, warning, threat.

Bobby immediately dug in his heels, stopping just feet away from the both of them. Not that Sam could really tell much of anything with a giant black wing flexing menacingly in front of his face. “Sam, what in the hell is this?” Bobby’s voice was gruff, pissed and confused.

“Uh, Castiel?” Sam whispered, because he didn’t quite need to bombard Bobby with not only an angel jumping to Sam’s defense, but also him knowing its name. That was a whole bag of crazy cats he was not emotionally equipped to deal with, not with the rest of his family unconscious in Medical. “It’s okay, this is Bobby. He’s family.”

Castiel refused to take his gaze off Bobby, studying him up and down with narrowed eyes. He didn’t answer Sam’s harried whispers, but his wing gradually retracted back like a black curtain, swinging away to start the performance. Sam almost swallowed his tongue at the look on Bobby’s face. It rivalled Krissy’s but with more disappointment, anger, and betrayal. The likes of which made Sam want to crumble. Instead he braced himself for the inevitable beat down, a verbal lashing he was capable of lashing back at, but not with Bobby.

“Where were you, Boy?” was the first thing out of his mouth. Sam started, gaze lifting from the grass in mild surprise. Maybe he was avoiding the Castiel thing until the end, to keep himself from beating the shit out of both of them.

“I- I went looking for the angel that hurt Dean.” Sam hated the way his voice wavered. “To see if it could help.” He saw Bobby shift weight from foot to foot, crossing his arms tight over his chest.

“It that it?” he asked, eyes darting to Castiel who stood beside Sam, silently observing the interaction. He didn’t seem to take any exception to Bobby talking as if he were not only an inanimate object, but also not there.

Sam gave a tentative nod, already warring on whether or not he should call Castiel a ‘he.’ In the end, the angel had jumped to his defense without a second thought. That had to count for something, didn’t it? At least that Castiel deserved to be treated like a human, or rather, a person. “He says he can help Dean. He can wake him up.”

It was impossible to miss the widening of Bobby’s eyes, dark irises fully visible. His mouth hung open just the slightest bit. “Bullshit. Angels can’t talk, Sam.” But it sounded more like an excuse than a refute. Sam shook his head and glanced over at Castiel who was already watching him, his head tilted.

“I can talk,” Castiel said, eyes still on Sam’s. “And I can help your fr- your family.” He turned to Bobby and pinned him with that blue-eyed stare that made Sam’s whole body tense in a fight or flight response. It was the kind of look that dominated a person, wholly. And it wasn’t something Sam was used to feeling, being as huge as he was. Bobby furrowed his brow and sputtered as he broke eye contact to focus on Sam again.

“Sam, be smart. You know- if they can talk, they can _think_ ,” he rubbed his fingers together. “They can lie to you Boy, make you think things that ain’t true.” Bobby was gesturing emphatically, desperately trying to get Sam to grasp his point. And Sam shook his head, inhaled. He’d already thought about these things, already considered the possible outcomes, weighed them against Dean never waking up again. There was no question.

“If he can help Dean, I’m willing to risk it. John, Ellen, Jo, if they never wake up, Bobby, I don’t know what I’ll do,” his voice cracked and Sam cleared his throat, gathered himself enough to look the man who’d helped raise him in the eye. “This angel saved my life. Twice, even. He was the only thing that kept Krissy from ending up like that,” he sidestepped to put the gory mass of mutilated angel in sight. Bobby stared at it, stony faced, arms hanging limply at his side.

It was a long moment before anyone spoke.

“You really do all that?” Bobby finally said, voice hoarse and eyes still glazed with some kind of dead hope. Sam’s gaze darted back and forth between Castiel and Bobby, as they regarded each other, sized each other up.

“Yes,” Castiel said.

Bobby’s swallow was audible. He turned back to Sam, still looking strained and uncomfortable standing there. “Okay, Sam.”

“Okay?” Sam prompted, not even daring to hope it meant what he thought it meant.

“But the second it steps out of line, so much as looks at somethin’ wrong, I will kill it. You understand me, Boy?” Bobby’s voice was a cold, callous imitation of John’s and it sent a zing up Sam’s spine that had him immediately standing straighter.

“Yes sir.” Sam was acutely aware of Castiel’s eyes on him as he played Dean’s soldier to John’s general.

“Good. Then lets get it to Medical without starting a riot.”

Sam huffed a humorless laugh. It wouldn’t be easy.

 

~

It was surprisingly easy. The hunters were stretched far thinner than Sam had anticipated. Four angel attacks in less than a day did that to a compound, he supposed. Bobby offered no theories on what the hell was suddenly giving the things a boost of suicidal confidence. But he did expound on what had happened to the Harvelle’s and John to render them comatose like Dean. They brought Castiel through the paths that went behind buildings, generally untraveled by anyone, let alone a hunter with a gun.

“Well they ain’t glowin’ like your damned brother, at least,” Bobby said as they crowded close to Castiel to try and make him seem less conspicuous. Castiel didn’t seem to mind the proximity as long as neither of them touched his wings.

Sam exhaled. “That’s something.” He remembered clearly Castiel telling him that he could wake Dean up, no more no less. Which could very well have meant that Dean would still be glowing at random intervals, even conscious. The mental image of Dean complaining about being what was essentially a human nightlite was simultaneously hilarious and worrisome. What if they never figured out how to fix it? Dean wouldn’t be able to hunt anymore, too ostentatious, too attention drawing. Dean would go stir crazy.

“Other than that, they’re the same. Hopefully your angel friend can bring ‘em all back,” Bobby murmured and the simple fact that he didn’t call Castiel an ‘it’ was improvement in itself. Castiel nodded as they shuffled along, past the back of Amelia and Don’s residence they shared with Jess.

“I can.”

They were behind Medical and Bobby went ahead to the front, making sure no armed hunters were inside or outside the general area. Sam stood extremely close to Castiel as they waited in an attempt to keep the angel out of plain sight, his head only coming up to Sam’s chin. He was so physically small compared to Sam strictly in measurements. But his presence was so powerful, so infinite, it felt slightly ridiculous, Sam crowding him in to keep him safe. He could never hope to encompass the entity that was Castiel. Not with his body and not even with his mind.

Bobby appeared around the corner and signaled the all clear. The next thing Sam knew, Bobby was pulling the metal doors shut behind them. They closed with a clunk that echoed in the large brick building and if Castiel’s good wing shrank close to him at the sound he didn’t realize it. Amelia was standing stock still at the foot of Dean’s bed, her hands clutching tight around a clipboard.

In the two beds closest to them on their right, Ellen and Jo lay. Both of them had been haphazardly thrown on top of the covers, their bodies splayed out in awkward positions from being so unceremoniously dumped. Sam figured they must have been brought in in a hurry, the remaining hunters struggling to put a fair amount of detail at every gate. John was on the small bed beside Dean, also over the blanket, his hand hanging off the side. It looked a little like he was reaching for Dean. Sam’s stomach wrenched into a kinked coil and his hand flew to his abdomen as if it were the product of physical injury.

Amelia blinked slowly, the only one in the room other than them and the comatose hunters. Her throat flexed in a swallow. “So, this is the angel.” And it didn’t sound much like a question. She moved back and forth, left foot, right foot.

Sam’s lips quirked up in that split second smile he tried when he wanted to humor someone into shutting up. “Yeah,” he affirmed the non-question and turned to Castiel, whose eyes were trained on Dean with an intensity that made Sam’s skin cold. “Castiel,” he croaked. The angel struggled to pull his gaze away, his head turning before his eyes did. “You’re up.” Sam could only pray that this didn’t go wrong.

“Dean first.” It could have been a question, but Castiel just walked past them, and they parted to let him through. Sam quickly made after him, trying not to touch his dad’s hand where it hung limply over the bedside. If he looked at it too long a fresh wave of guilt, of Dean-over-everyone, would come crashing down on him and it was hardly something he could deal with when Dean was about to wake up, come back.

Castiel’s wings both flared out as he stopped on the other side of Dean, they reached the span of two hospital beds each and Sam felt feathers brush his cheek and shoulder. Castiel didn’t seem to notice as he stared down at Dean with an expression of dumbstruck awe. Like an infant looking in the mirror for the first time and seeing its reflection. It was easier if Sam watched Dean instead, his eyes raking over every inch of his unconscious brother, chest aching with each familiar detail he had ingrained in his head since childhood.

His skin wasn’t glowing at the moment, just the pale, cream Sam was used to and he wanted to touch. He wanted to wrap his brother up and cuddle him close like a protective mother bear, make sure he was warm and well fed and safe, the kind of things Dean had done for him. He only wrapped his hand around Dean’s wrist, the bone jutting out and digging into his palm when he reflexively squeezed.

Seemingly content with his observation, whatever angels saw when they stared so deeply at humans, Castiel cast a short glance in Sam’s direction. He nodded just a fraction, and it looked more like a question this time, askance, ‘are you sure’ or even ‘is this okay’ Sam couldn’t be sure. But he returned the expression because he was going to do this and Dean was going to wake up.

Castiel raised two fingers, index and middle pressed together, and it was so similar to something Sam recalled seeing a priest do to a follower once. He lightly pushed them against Dean’s forehead, just a gentle tap, no fireworks or eerie glow, just a poke and then Dean was gasping awake like a dying man, eyes shooting open.

Sam jerked when the wrist he was clinging to flung out in some half-assed attempt at self defense, a weak fist whamming into his hip. Dean spasmed, the spasm of a man that’d just woken up to see angel wings hanging over him, kicking his legs and choking on his own spit in his excitement. Fortunately, his lower half was trapped beneath blankets and all he accomplished was untucking them. He propelled himself into an upright position just as Castiel backed away, retracting his wings and seeming to sense the threat he’d unintentionally made. Dean looked about ready to launch himself at the angel, delirious and obviously relying on nothing but muscle memory.

Sam restrained him easily. He grabbed Dean hard and pulled him into the kind of hug that could crush rib cages, his biceps curling around broad shoulders. An oof sounded right beside Sam’s ear and he wanted to laugh hysterically because Dean was _okay_ he was fucking okay and Sam was hugging him and he was moving. The thick arms trapped between their torsos managed to wriggle free. Sam thought Dean was about to punch him, still thinking he was some sort of hugging enemy, but then the arms tentatively slid up his back. And _Dean was okay._

Dean must have given Bobby a look (and shit Sam had completely forgotten about him and Amelia), because a gruff voice said, “you been out a while.” As if that explained everything that Sam had done to get his dumbass brother awake and carefully hugging him back as if Sam would fall apart if he squeezed. Though the short sentence was enough to appease Dean, his body finally relaxing completely in Sam’s suffocating hold.

He heard a wheeze and cough, Dean cleared his throat. “Fuck, water. Water,” Dean rasped, his hand lifting off Sam’s back to gesticulate wildly. Sam heard Amelia clattering around and he figured he should probably let Dean go before his brother collapsed again just from lack of oxygen and proper hydration. Sam ripped himself free like a velcro strip, forcing his arms to come off with a surprising amount of reluctance. And Dean grunted again at the swift movement, as if Sam had just ripped a bandaid off his chest.

On cue, both of them finally separate, Amelia swooped in like a savior in a medical coat and thrusted the water bottle into Dean's grabby hands. "Drink slow or you'll vomit." Sam watched his brother guzzle the liquid without preamble and wanted to hit himself for getting emotional about the way Dean drank, large gulps totally heedless of Amelia's command.

The room was silent but for Dean's rapid swallowing until he pulled off the empty bottle with an exaggerated gasp, licking his chapped lips. Bright eyes scoured the room and were almost magnetized towards Castiel who had been standing silently in the back, wings pressed to his body. Dean tensed all over, muscles flexing. “Is there an angel in the corner or am I seeing things?” he asked trying to go for laughs or something, but Sam could see the crease in the corners of his eyes, the dimples above the corners of the his mouth. Telltale signs that he wasn’t happy.

“That angel just saved your life,” Sam said, and he didn’t try to sound superior with the statement but it came out kinda wrong because Dean suddenly squinted his eyes and blinked hard a few times.

“Is that the fucking- the one I went after? The one who attacked me?” Dean’s volume rose with each word and he took turns dealing out accusing, betrayed glares around the room.

“If you hadn’t been a dumbass and gone after him by yourself maybe we all wouldn’t be in this situation,” Sam growled and he knew he shouldn’t blame his brother for the emotional wringer he’d just put him through. But with Dean looking at him like _he_ was the bad guy, after all the shit he’d just done for him, he wanted to smother him until he went back into a goddamn coma.

“Oh so it’s my fault huh? That’s rich coming from the guy who refused to have my back in the first place, from the guy who just brought a fucking angel into _camp_ -”

“Dean.” Castiel’s voice was rough and heavy with some sort of warning that Sam couldn’t read. Everyone’s gaze fell on the angel as he stared Dean down unabashedly, blue eyes cold and narrow. Dean froze mid-sentence, caught like a deer in headlights. Sam awaited the inevitable backlash, for Dean to go berserk and lunge at the angel with intent to kill.

But Dean bit his lip hard and scowled, fingers clenching tight into the sheet. He tore his gaze away with a growl and stopped short at the sight of John unconscious in the bed beside his. Sam raised his hands placatingly, already attempting to appease the hysteria before it could start. He could see Dean’s wild eyes flit to Jo and Ellen across the room and his breath picked back up, bordering on hyperventilation.

“What the hell happened? Are they okay? Sam, is Dad okay?” he was almost yelling, frantically looking from Sam to John and back again. Sam nodded rapidly.

“Yeah, Dean, yeah. They were attacked-”

“ _That thing?”_ Dean hissed, shooting a furious glare in Castiel’s direction.

“No a different one. The camp’s been getting hit hard ever since this morning, the angels are going crazy, coming up to the gates, tryna get in. But Ellen and Jo are gonna be fine, Dean. Dad’ll be fine,” he assured, urging Dean to calm down with a careful hand on his shoulder. “They’re comatose like you were. That angel,” he tilted his head at Castiel, “he’s here to wake them up. As a favor to me.”

Dean blinked wide eyes at Sam, speechless, and then he squeezed them shut, his hand suddenly coming up to press against his forehead. Amelia materialized at Dean’s left, a small cup of water and a handful of pills. “Headache?” she asked gently. “It’s common when you’re out for so long. Try not to stress too much.”

“M’fine, just-” Dean pried an eye open to lock gazes with Sam. “Just wake them up already.”

Sam nodded slowly, still hovering over his brother like he might collapse at any second. And for all the doctor knew, he might. It wasn’t like anyone had written a manual on angel-induced coma patients. Dean took the drugs from Amelia and downed them with a loud dry swallow, before cutting another glare at Sam. “I said I’m fine.”

“Okay, okay, I get it. Just take it easy and try not to overexert anything,” Sam said, hoping he didn’t sound too overbearing and finally stepping out of Dean’s personal space. And then, like a marionette with cut strings, Dean just sighed excessively loud and flopped back into the white pillow, staring up at the ceiling. Sign enough that he was tired of Sam being annoying.

“Well now that you two boys are done with yer catfight, think we can get back the matter at hand?” Bobby cut in gruffly, shaking his head. Dean ignored him and Sam shot him a glare without any heat behind it.

“Yeah, okay. Let’s get Dad next. Castiel?”

The angel, who’d been watching Dean with a frown, drew his attention back to Sam. He gave a sharp nod and made his careful way to Sam’s side, giving everyone else a wide berth whether for their sakes or his own, Sam couldn’t tell. But it was obvious Castiel was distracted, ever since he’d first laid eyes on Dean, comatose in his bed. Sam wanted to ask what was going on between them, it wasn’t like he’d missed their silent exchange a moment ago. At the same time, he wondered if he was better off not knowing. If he could even understand the way things worked in an angel’s mind, if maybe Dean was somehow special to Castiel because the angel had been in his head, felt his feelings. The idea left a pit in Sam’s stomach.

“This is your father,” Castiel said without intonation and Sam couldn’t tell if it was a question or a statement. John’s head pressed into the pillow and he looked more like he’d just passed out from a hard day keeping the camp running than fallen victim to a coma. It wasn’t anything like the way Dean had been, so still and motionless and eerie. John could have been asleep. But Sam knew he wasn’t and it made his throat tight.

“Yeah, this is him,” Sam replied, clearing his throat. He recalled their fight the night before and the tentative truce between them for Dean’s sake. How they’d merely tolerated each other for a while now and he wondered if John had even been told about Sam leaving camp. If he’d be pissed off about it when he woke up.

“Should you restrain him?” Castiel asked, looking up at Sam with that serious expression he seemed to wear permanently. It took Sam a second to realize Castiel was referring to John’s inevitable freak out when he saw an angel looming over him and not his righteous fatherly anger.

“Bobby can you take his other side? Just in case he tries to kill Castiel,” Sam asked, placing a large hand over his father’s chest. It was surprisingly warm under his palm, the calming thud-thud of John’s heart keeping him grounded. Bobby stuck close on the right of John’s hospital bed, hands poised to hold him down without actually touching him.

Castiel kept his good wing as much out of sight as a ten-foot, feathery appendage could be, curled in close and tilted back. Sam’s body kept his injured wing, a quivery, disjointed and gray thing, from John’s view. Sam made note to get Amelia to check it out as soon as this whole mess was sorted. He felt Castiel lean around him, a rough hand landing on his shoulder through the tear in his shirt to steady himself.

Momentarily, Sam’s entire focus zeroed in on the fingers pressing into his skin and he was still so struck by how human it felt. Castiel was this immense presence, all encompassing and practically suffocating, Sam knew. But his skin was still human, still familiar and fragile. It was an oddly comforting dichotomy.

Sam raised his free hand to lay it over Castiel’s, felt the jump of nerves at his sudden reciprocal touch, and caught his wide, blue eyes. “The instant he wakes up you get back, okay? He’ll try to kill you, and unlike Dean, he could actually do it.” Sam half expected some sort of affront on Castiel’s part, as the one thing he did know about the angel was his sense of pride. Castiel knew he was stronger than any human, he knew how powerful he was and he didn’t take kindly to it being undermined in Sam’s experience. But Castiel’s stare remained fixed on Sam’s huge hand engulfing his own and all he did was nod, a soft absent thing.

“Waitin’ on you two,” Bobby interjected, shooting them both a dead look. “We ain’t exactly got all day, there’s angels crawling all over the damn place.”

That was enough to get Sam to refocus on the problem at hand, his gaze falling back to John’s scowling face. Even in a coma, he could look furious with his youngest son’s lack of attention. His heartbeat was still a steady thudding against the fleshy part of Sam’s palm, still calming and reassuring in a way that John could never intentionally be. Sam released Castiel’s hand so that he could brush the mess of his dad’s hair away from his forehead, making space for the angel’s jump start.

He felt Castiel shift around him, his two fingers pushing very lightly against John’s skin. The moment the contact between angel and hunter broke, Sam could hear a sharper inhale of breath than those previous. John didn’t choke for oxygen like Dean had. He opened his eyes slowly as if he really had just been taking a short nap, pupils contracting at the light in the room. Sam felt the higher rise of his dad’s chest, the flexing of muscles beneath his hand before John actually moved to protect himself from the angel standing over him.

Which was a good thing, because abruptly John was fighting against Sam’s weight on his chest and Bobby’s hands on his shoulders, wild eyes on Castiel. The angel moved away, trying to appear as nonthreatening as possible, but John couldn’t seem to see past the giant black wings. Sam was pretty sure he didn’t even realize that he and Bobby were the one’s trying to pin him down, his fists wailing on anything within range (most painfully, Sam’s jaw) and his knees slamming into Sam’s side hard enough to bruise. Bobby struggled to assure John that he was safe but a well placed foot to the gut knocked the breath out of him and he stopped mid-sentence.

Sam was just starting to worry that John would take both of them out in his confused stupor, when Amelia was suddenly leaning over the top of the bed and jamming a needle into the side of John’s throat. Immediately, the struggling stopped and John went slack in Sam’s arms. Shooting Amelia a grateful look, Sam’s hand raised to touch gingerly at the goose egg forming on the left side of his face, a dull thudding radiating from the injury. Bobby spat blood onto the tiled flooring.

“What was that? What’d you stab him with?” Dean demanded, having apparently watched the whole thing unfold from his immobile position on the bed. Amelia held up the syringe with a smile.

“Don’t worry it’s just a shot of rohypnol, he’ll be up in a few hours,” she assured, moving to put the needle and the bottle of sedative back. Dean followed her with a scowl.

“You _roofied_ our dad?” he growled, obviously distraught. Sam heaved a huge sigh, flinching when a stitch in his side twinged with the movement.

“Well that went great,” Bobby said, sarcasm heavy on his bloody tongue he must’ve accidentally bitten in the hassle. Sam massaged the spot John has managed to land a particularly bruising blow and tried not to be too disappointed. Granted, as soon as John was brought up to speed Sam was sure to be ripped a new one for not only leaving camp, but bringing in an angel. Sam’s throat would be scraped raw by the time he and John were done shouting.

But John was still the best hunter in this place and with all the weird shit going on (the angels suddenly all attacking and Dean’s glowing veins and this coma thing) it just would’ve been a load off Sam’s shoulders to have his dad working to figure everything out. In some ways he was still just a kid running to Daddy for reassurance. John wasn’t invincible but he was unbreakable and that was really what Sam needed right now.

“Which first, Ellen or Jo?” Bobby asked, having already joined Castiel beside the Harvelles, keeping a fair amount of distance between himself and the angel of course. Sam gathered himself and with a last assuring jaunt of John’s shoulder, he crossed the room to stand at the foot of the two beds.

“I don’t know, which do you think would be the least likely to break my jaw?”

As Bobby mulled this over, Castiel bent close to Jo’s motionless face, tilting his head curiously in that way he did. “Sam,” he said suddenly and Sam’s gut clenched instinctively. It was so jarring to hear his name, something so commonly said by others, fall from an angel’s lips. His voice was no different from any other person, rough and husky as if he’d just woken up, but the idea that something so colossally bigger than Sam would say his name so easily was an odd sensation. Like hearing his name echo off a massive mountain range, ethereal and overwhelming.

“Yeah?” Sam replied casually enough, watching the angel brush a blonde curl from Jo’s cheek. It wasn’t a gesture of affection the way it might have looked had Sam done it, but more of convenience. Castiel just flicked it off and turned blue eyes on Sam, intent, the way he’d been when he’d seen Dean again for the first time.

“I don’t understand why you told me to distance myself when your father woke. It was clear you had difficulties keeping him compliant. I am strong enough to restrain John Winchester, it would’ve been easier for everyone if you had let me help.” Castiel was looking at Sam like he honestly could not comprehend why Sam would want him out of his father’s warpath. Other than the obvious factors, like his dad trying to kill the only angel that could help Sam’s friends and the fact that, if pushed, Castiel might’ve ended up killing John, Sam had honestly just slipped back into typical protective mode. It came easy to him, keeping others safe.

Sure Castiel was this powerful, immense thing but he was also occupying a human body that could be hurt like anyone else. And Sam instinctively wanted to keep him out of harm’s way. He was helping them, after all. Sam finally shrugged one shoulder, not quite sure what answer would satiate Castiel’s curiosity. “I’d rather take a few bumps than risk you getting hurt.”

Bobby clapped his hands together, calluses scratching together. “Jo’s probably safest, Ellen’d go nuts if Jo was still out when she woke up,” he explained, plucking his trucker hat off to rub his head. Sam turned his attention away and missed Castiel’s flushed neck.

“You think she needs to be held down?”

“Nah. She ain’t exactly John Winchester, even if she goes for the throat we can keep her back.”

Sam saw the reasoning in that and situated himself in front of Castiel so that he could act as a barrier between her eyes and the angel’s immense wings. This time there was no steadying hand on Sam’s shoulder as Castiel quickly poked his fingers against her pale forehead. Jo’s impossibly wide eyes shot open and she was upright before Sam and Bobby could even think, before Castiel could even withdraw his hand.

“ _They can talk_ ,” she whispered so low Sam almost didn’t hear. Her pupils were dilated, blown wide with a sudden rush of adrenaline and she leaned closer to Sam, nearly falling over herself. “Sam, the angels can talk. I heard her talk.”

Sam’s stomach dropped and he bent closer. “Who? Heard who talk?”

Jo opened her mouth. Her gaze slid up above Sam’s head, the shadow of a wing reflecting in her brown eyes. She screamed before Sam could explain anything.

 

~

 

The doc said “coma” but Dean had slept two days straight once and no one dragged his lifeless corpse to Medical _then_. Or given him this judgemental, worried glare like it was all his fault. And yes, maybe going after that thing on his own without any backup was a terrible idea, but he’d gotten so used to having Sam at his heels he’d forgotten he was alone. In the end, it boiled down to actually being Sam’s fault, so really he had no right to shoot him these tense glances like Dean had thrown himself off a cliff or something.

And then there was the angel.

Supposedly it was domesticated, or so Sam had implied with his eyebrows. All Dean got from the situation was that his little brother was going around putting proverbial leashes on monsters. A monster that dug around in Dean’s head with the intention of rendering him completely brain dead and could now convey some sort of emotional suppression with its giant eyes. Or something.

Dean wasn’t quite clear on the particulars (yet). He only knew that the thing had given him some intensively invasive soul-staring and (for some ungodly reason) Dean had felt all the fight in him, the indignation, the “why in the fuck are you making _nice_ with it?”, just force out of him like air from a popped balloon. It felt a lot like he’d done it willingly, but Dean knew that couldn’t be it. He’d wanted to punch Sam for bringing an angel to camp like it was some homeless dog. For letting it anywhere near Dad or Bobby or Ellen or Jo.

Instead, he’d flopped back onto the mattress in a silent huff. There had to be some serious mental manipulation going on here and obviously that angel was at the bottom of it. It could talk after all. Since when could the angels do that? There was something off about this one. Angels that could talk were angels that could think and if it could think it could plot to kill them all in their sleep. Dean just had to get Sam separated from its sight long enough to convey that his actions weren’t his own any more, before the angel could do something worse than make him play nice.

Green eyes darted stealthily away from the ceiling to gauge the situation. The angel (“ _his name is Castiel, Dean,”_ imaginary Sam’s voice bitched) was sequestered in the corner of the building, sitting on the edge of a hospital bed and picking at the feathers of its left wing. Dean could see its gaze dart up every few moments, stealing little glances at Sam’s back from where he and Bobby were explaining the whole thing to Ellen and Jo after Jo’s freakout. Apparently, angel wings were horrifying to all the _normal_ people in the room. The sight of the angel keeping tabs on his brother, made Dean narrow his eyes, suspicion and general frustration pinching his face into a scowl. He still hadn’t quite figured out what the thing’s endgame was, being helpful and compliant, but it must have had something to do with Sam. Since it obviously wanted to keep track of Dean’s brother wherever he went.

It raised its hand to push at its sternum and then blue eyes were on Dean, pinning him to the spot as if he’d been caught thinking something he shouldn’t. The angel’s expression (if the things could even feel, which Dean was pretty sure they couldn’t) shifted from its earlier disinterest to something like a frown, the corners of its mouth turning down and its eyebrows furrowing. Except that there was no displeasure or anger in its eyes. Blank and expressionless. Dean shivered involuntarily and broke the contact, gaze cutting back to Sam.

After Jo had screamed bloody murder, Sam and Bobby had been working to calm her down (which included waking Ellen up) and get the skinny on what the hell had happened to them. Judging from her reaction to the angel’s wings it couldn’t have been anything good. Dean couldn’t catch a glimpse of either women from his position, so instead he stared at the back of his giant brother.

Every few seconds Sam would turn his head just enough to expose the swelling goose egg on his jaw from where John had accidentally socked him. It’d probably last a few solid days and Dean felt a bubble of pride. Even half conscious and confused John’s right hook was just as vicious as it’d always been. Once when Dean was twelve, he had seen his dad punch an angel square in the face and send the thing reeling back, blood pouring from its mouth. Dean had been perfecting his own hand-to-hand ever since.

Sam’s giant shoulders were rolling, flexing as he gestured at Dean and the angel with his hands. There was a tear in the plaid of his left shoulder that Dean was only just now noticing. It exposed the uninjured skin beneath and Dean blinked. The flannel was obviously drenched in the black crust of day old blood, shredded material torn at least three inches down, tell tale signs of some serious wound’s infliction. Yet Sam’s shoulder looked unharmed. At least it did from Dean’s position behind him. Maybe he’d gotten stabbed or shot from the front and it hadn’t gone all the way through?

Either way, the sight of the tattered shirt was enough to make Dean’s gut clench uneasily and he threw the scratchy blanket off. He was lowering bare feet onto the tile when he heard the vet shout something at him. Whatever she warned against was lost in a sudden wave of vertigo that had Dean shooting his hands out to grab the edge of the bed, world spinning and vision blacking. His flailing arms clipped a solid chest and then he was being gently lowered back against the bedside, nauseous and embarrassed.

“Whoa whoa whoa, Dean, what the hell? Amelia said to sit tight are you _trying_ to give yourself a concussion?” Sam sounded frantic but mostly just annoyed with his giant hand still steadying Dean by the shoulder. Dean wanted to shove him off because he was a fully capable hunter and he could take care of himself, goddammit. But then another urge to vomit the nonexistent contents of his stomach had his fingers curling into the bedsheet.

He exhaled heavily through his nose, eyes squeezed shut, and thought happy thoughts about pushing Sam over. Finally the universe seemed to right itself, the swaying pressure in his head dwindling to nothing. “M’fine,” he growled through gritted teeth and garnered enough coordination to throw Sam’s hand off.

“Just lie down, dude,” Sam said, more brotherly exasperation evident and condescending. Dean pried his eyes open (heavy like they were fucking glued down) and managed a half-lidded stare which he directed at Sam with no small amount of ill-will. Sam raised his eyebrows and backed off, hands up. “Okay. I’m just saying you should take it easy before you put yourself in another coma.”

And for some reason that had Dean’s hackles rising. “Maybe I’ll take it easy when you finally explain to me exactly why the hell I shouldn’t be shooting that thing in the face right now?” His voice was nothing but a rumble in his throat, low and hoarse. He didn’t even need to fling his hand in the angel’s direction, the immediate fall of Sam’s expression was indication enough that he understood.

Pissed wasn’t really the right word for the way Sam’s mouth twisted, the slight tilt of his head, the wry raise of his cheeks in some mock of a grin. His whole body was tensed and he towered over Dean’s slouched position, almost enough to have Dean shrinking back in apology. But before Dean could reconsider his wording (not that he wanted to), he was being jerked forward by Sam’s balled fist in his shirt collar, knuckles digging into his neck. He wasn’t scared. Sam wouldn’t hurt him. Not much anyway.

Dean wasn’t scared of _Sam_ but what he would say. Sam had always had a way with words, a way to find the weak spot, to dig and wrench and needle until he’d torn you apart from the inside out. Sam could destroy him with nothing but a simple sentence and he knew it. And Dean had invited him to it, had instigated it, maybe wanted it. A muscle in the corner of Sam’s mouth twitched, pulled back, teeth exposed. His eyes were wet. And in a huff of breath, on an exhale.

“He saved your life.”

He didn’t throw it in Dean’s face like it was supposed to surprise him, make him guilty, like Dean wasn’t already made well aware of the fact. He didn’t spit it out like it was venom on his tongue, meant to sink under Dean’s skin and spread through his veins. What he said wasn’t for Dean, not really. It was a prayer, a benediction, an overwhelming gratitude. It was pure awe.

Dean’s heart lodged in his throat and his eyes found the angel across the room. It was watching Sam with rapt attention, like the kid hung the moon and lit up the sun every morning. There was something like awe there too. And Dean just couldn’t. His brain was malfunctioning because he just couldn’t possibly understand or even begin to comprehend the angel’s intentions, its underlying motive with an expression like that. And, much as he hated to admit, Sam’s way of thinking was equally lost on him. Maybe this was something he’d be better off not interfering in. Anything that could look at Sam like that, bring that expression to Sam’s face, was something much bigger than Dean. Maybe too big.

The hand in his shirt loosened and Dean recoiled from it, mind working furiously to decipher how he should go about this strange ‘relationship’ situation between his brother and an _angel_ of all things. He’d dropped his eyes to the gray tiled floor, shifting his weight back onto the bed fully. Sam hovered as he was wont to do, Dean could see him out of the corner of his eye. “I- uh. Yeah,” was all he could manage, waving his brother out of his space.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice wavered, concerned.

“Whatever,” he muttered, straightening out the wrinkles Sam’s fingers had made. He glanced up at his brother and tried to pull on his signature grin, the one he knew didn’t reach his eyes. And he remembered why he’d even tried to get up in the first place. “Why’re you covered in blood anyway? I’m the one who almost died.”

Sam seemed to consider him for a moment, probably making sure his fragile little body wasn’t going to break into pieces right in front him. Then he sighed, a furrow in his brow. “Got stabbed by your machete actually.”

Dean’s jaw tightened, eyes working Sam over, searching for any gaping wounds he might’ve missed. “What? Where? Did the doc patch you up? What the hell, Sammy, trained you better’n that!” he exclaimed and was comforted in the familiar line of questioning, refusing to let his gaze drift back to the angel in the corner. Sam directed a dry scowl at him, crossing his arms.

“Took an angel on by myself. Sound familiar?”

Dean honestly wouldn’t be surprised if Sam’s hip had cocked mid-sentence. And he wanted to snort even if the idea of Sam chasing after one of those things alone made him want to throw his brother’s ass in a locked cellar.

Instead, he shot Sam an unimpressed glare, jaw muscle ticking. “Are you okay? You’re not gonna bleed to death are you?”

“I’m fine,” Sam said.

Dean narrowed his eyes at the terse reply. Usually terse replies meant Sam was lying through his teeth, which meant he was definitely not fine, in fact he was probably dying. And the anxious urgency to make sure Sammy was okay crashed over Dean like a tidal wave. His fists in the sheets clenched. “Sam if you’re bullshitting me-”

“What? No! I’m fine, Dean, seriously. There is literally nothing wrong with me,” Sam gestured at his supposedly uninjured front, “look? See, I’m fine.”

“Who in the hell gets stabbed by my machete and’s perfectly fine?” Dean tried not to sound too hysterical but Sam was throwing him some mixed signals here and all he wanted was to make sure his brother was okay, was that too much to ask?

Sam scratched his head (fluffing up his grossly long hair, _damn Sammy just cut it already_ ) and had the gall to glance back at the angel. Dean refused to follow his line of sight but he could see some sort of one-sided conversation play across Sam’s face. Finally his brother heaved a breath and said, “uh an angel got the upperhand on me. Stabbed me in the shoulder, right here.” He tugged the tear in his shirt a little wider to expose tan skin. Dean squinted his eyes.

“There’s nothing there.”

Sam’s hand fell to his side. “Castiel killed the angel and he healed me.”

Dean’s gut clenched. The same damn thing that almost ended his life apparently saved Sam’s. It was exactly the kind of irony he expected in his life and he wanted nothing more than to slam his face into something solid. It wasn’t in Dean to feel utter hatred towards something that wanted to protect his brother. Sure, the thing--Castiel--helped _him_ stay afloat but that was nothing compared to keeping Sammy alive. He had to give it some form of begrudging respect. No matter how much it made his stomach sink. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t be suspicious of its ( _his_ ) underlying agenda, even if it was something as weird as kidnapping Sam away to his little hole in the ground or whatever the hell else angels lived in. With the way he looked at Sam it honestly wouldn’t surprise Dean in the least.

“So angels can heal people,” he muttered, shaking his head and chuckling a dry a humorless laugh. “Great.” They could talk, think, and have some sort of affinity for a specific human too (though dogs could do that, so that one wasn’t too surprising). It seemed there was a million and one things they were wrong about when it came to the monsters they hunted, which was equal parts frustrating and terrifying.

Sam did that thing with his mouth he did when he wasn’t sure what to say, a quirk in the corner of his lips that disappeared as soon as it had come. Dean was seconds away from asking if there was anything else angels could do that he should know about, but then something really fucking weird happened.

And by really fucking weird, he meant his entire body suddenly warmed as if someone had put an electric heater inside him. Sam’s eyes went wide and then an eerie glow was at the edges of Dean’s vision, just at the peripheral and he was immediately jerking his head to see it better. His gaze shifted and caught on the orange lines tracing under his skin like a firefly had exploded in his hand and leaked all down his forearm. It spiderwebbed across his palm and he could even see it shining dully through his dark shirt.

“Sam,” Dean started, trying desperately to remain calm despite the pounding in his head. He held up his forearms as carefully as he could.

“Dean don’t-” Sam was saying but Dean beat him to it, thrusting his arms into his brother’s face.

“Why the fuck am I _glowing?_ ” He was borderline hysterical, waving his fucking lit up skin at Sam because this was sure as fuck Sam’s fault. And if not him then- Dean whirled around to face the angel in the corner. “What did you do to me you feathery bastard?” he shouted across the room, taking some small amount of pleasure in the way Castiel’s wing jumped, startled.

Sam grabbed his wrists and Dean was sorely tempted to tear free but the look on his brother’s face had him hesitating. “Calm down, Dean,” he said in his placating voice. Dean glared at him, willing him to burst into flames.

“Easy for you to say, you’re not a fucking glowstick,” he growled, could feel the warmth in his face intensify, the lights dancing around the edge of his sight flaring until he was almost blinded by it. “Holy shit Sam I can’t even fucking see what is this,” and maybe he was borderline hyperventilating because goddammit if he went blind because of some fucking angel mojo he was gonna strangle Castiel. Cut his damn wings off.

“Castiel, you wanna come look at this?” Sam said and Dean recoiled, struggling in his brother’s grip. There was no fucking way he was gonna let that thing come near him when his vision was impaired.

“Don’t you dare-” the glow flickered and dulled enough that he could see clearly. Castiel seemed to just materialize in front of him, frown etched deeper into his face than usual. Dean inched his foot out to try and tweak his injured wing, but he was just short of reaching it and Castiel seemed unaware of his blatant displeasure as he leaned closer. Obviously angels had no concept of personal space.

“Stop moving Dean he’s trying to help,” Sam said patiently, like Dean was a three year old with a toothache. Castiel tilted his head and then his hands were wrapping around Sam’s where they still held onto Dean’s wrists. Wary not to touch Dean’s skin, he lifted them closer and turned them over with a quizzical eye. The first sign of real human intelligence Dean had ever seen in them. He’d known it was there, but it was something altogether different actually seeing it first hand flashing in blue irises. He complied with the subtle manhandling, but only because the other option was ripping himself free and punching the thing in the face. Which probably wouldn’t go over well with anyone.

While Castiel was staring intently at his skin, eyes flicking up to his face and chest and feet as well, Dean noticed that he’d managed to garner the attention of the whole room. Bobby was watching Castiel with a guarded expression, just as distrustful of the angel as Dean. Ellen and Jo too were on the fence between worried frowns for Dean and suspicious glares for Castiel. Even Amelia was observing the exchange with some level of curiosity.

“Castiel?” Sam finally prompted, adopting some sort of gently hopeful expression that was honestly triggering Dean’s gag reflex because really? You’d think Sam was talking to the second coming with that face. Castiel’s uninjured wing fluttered, feathers rippling, maybe in some angelic form of acknowledgment, Dean had no idea.

“I’ve never seen this,” Castiel blinked slowly, seeming to mull his next words. Despite himself, Dean couldn’t help impatiently awaiting the angel to continue. If anything was gonna fix this psychedelic acid trip of a skin problem it was gonna be the thing that caused it. And at this point Dean was almost positive it was Castiel’s fault. “But I think it may be somehow related to my-”

Which, of course, was the moment Bobby’s walkie sparked to life with the loud fuzz of static, Ash’s frantic voice crackling through the line, “uh guys, we need some help out at- shit man just _shoot it!_ At uh, North gate and bring- bring all your fucking guns.” The static broke again for the sound of gunfire and then, like an echo, the same noise ghosted through Medical.

Ellen and Jo were out of their beds in an instant, legs shaky but holding firm. “Whoa whoa, you guys just woke up,” Amelia said, but she was already calling at their backs as they made a mad dash for the exit. Bobby gave Sam and Dean one last nod before tearing off after them. Dean watched him leave and wanted nothing more than to be running at his side, barrel of his shotgun solid in his hands. He clenched his fists.

“Lemme go, they need help,” he growled, tugging on the dual grips holding fast around his wrists. The fingers only dug harder into his skin, a vein of light whited out from the pressure.

“You just came out of a coma, Dean. An angel was digging around in your _head,_ ” Sam said through his teeth.

“And what Ellen and Jo were just taking a nap?”

“Ellen and Jo aren’t _glowing_ are they? You’d be a bright shining target, they can handle this. Ash is out there with the kids on watch and Don and Tamara, they’ll be _fine._ ” He enunciated the word with a squeeze that’d leave red marks Dean was sure. Not that he’d be able to see them underneath the orange haze anyway.

Dean stared at the spot where Castiel’s tan fingers overlapped with Sam’s and he gave a halfhearted shake. He couldn’t believe he was about to give in to his brother for the second (third?) time in as many hours. He was really losing his fight if this was as hard as he was willing to push. “Whatever, just let go of me. And you,” he directed his next request to the angel who’d been quietly observing their interaction. “Tell me what the hell this fucking light show _relates_ to.”

Castiel released Sam’s hands. “We are linked. I think I not only took pieces of your soul, but left something of my own in its place.” Dean curled his lip because not only did that sound ominous as all hell, it sounded gross.

“Like herpes?” he asked and was pleased at the little chuff from Sam at the unexpectedly serious tone to Dean’s question. Dean would die before he let things get too emotionally trying with an audience around, fake it ‘til you make it and all that.

Castiel frowned, confused, and his reaction was almost as nice as Sam’s. Confusing an angel who carried himself like he owned the fucking palace was high on Dean’s list of priorities. It reminded him that while angels could very well be these powerful, intelligent creatures, he could always render them momentarily speechless.

“I don’t know how this situation is similar to a sexually transmitted disease,” Castiel stated carefully as if this were some human nuance he’d yet to learn. It was about what Dean had expected to hear and it didn’t make it any less entertaining anyway. At least there was gonna be something good come out of this whole Sam’n’Angel situation.

“Nevermind,” Dean muttered. Sam dropped his wrists, obviously no longer thinking his brother was a flight risk. Dean redirected his attention to the glow strumming in the veins of his forearm, just beneath the red lines Sam’s fingers left. It was such a ridiculous side-effect of angel mojo, he wouldn’t be surprised if he started pissing neon next. He folded his fist towards him and the thick tendon in his wrist strained beneath the thin skin there. The line of orange light shifted away from the tendon with the movement and Dean rubbed at it absently. It wasn’t painted on, wouldn’t be able to move around inside him if it was. Dean grumbled and caught the angel staring at him.

“How do we fix it?” Sam interjected, successfully drawing Castiel’s perplexed frown away. Castiel blinked but his expression didn’t change. Dean had a feeling it never really did.

“I don’t know,” he repeated. “It is strange that it only occurs on occasion. I would need to know what causes it to react this way…” Castiel quieted, turning from Sam back to the glow in Dean’s cheeks and then his hands.

Dean narrowed his eyes at the sudden ominous silence. He flexed his fists under the angel’s gaze and started at the abrupt flutter of black feathers that followed the action. As if Castiel had been startled by it. Sam noticed too, catching the suspicious look Dean shot him.

“What is it, Castiel?” his brother prompted, raising a hand as if he wanted to put it on Castiel’s shoulder, to reassure him “safe space” style. Dean glared at the giant paw hovering in the space just shy of the angel’s bare skin. He always knew Sam had a hard on about the angels but was he really to the point where he was offering physical comfort to the thing? It wasn’t a dog you could pet to keep calm, it was a monster that’d rip your arm off without a second’s hesitation. The two of them would be having a stern conversation about this later, preferably when Dad was awake to back him up.

Castiel seemed to have some internal struggle, his left wing rising above his waist so that he could stretch it out past Sam and against the solid wall. Dean followed the elongated limb, with its feathers rustling, and took it to be some sort of gesture like the way Sam rolled his shoulders before a fight. The similarity had Dean tensing.

“Spit it out already,” he muttered, going for his usual bravado but falling a little flat. He ignored the glare Sam shot him and didn’t miss how his brother’s hand was hanging just short of Castiel’s expanded wing. He wondered absently what happened when a human touched an angel’s wings.

“You could possess the same abilities of an angel,” Castiel said, and Dean’s heart rate spiked because not only could that be really fucking useful but it also meant he was a grade A freak. He spread his hands open, holding them up and getting a good look at the flat planes of his palms, duller lines of orange glow tracing over them like roads on an atlas.

“What like mind melting, inducing comas, and healing myself?” Dean asked, willing his hands to emit that righteous light the way angels’ did when they were Purifying a human. Nothing happened and he cut his eyes to meet Castiel’s. “Like permanently?”

“I can’t say with any amount of certainty,” was the angel’s lackluster response. “But there is a way to know for sure.”

“That way doesn’t involve both your hands on either side of my face, does it?” Just because he still didn’t trust the thing and it wouldn’t surprise him if it only came back with Sam to finish the Purification off. Dean clenched his hands back into fists and understood Castiel’s initial reaction to the movement. He’d been worried that Dean could use those very hands to turn him into a brain dead vegetable the way he had tried to do to Dean.

“I only need to touch hands with you,” he said and it sounded simple. Too simple to stress over.

“If it’s that easy, why’d you hesitate earlier?” Sam voiced Dean’s thoughts without any meaningful glances and Dean raised his eyebrows at the angel to emphasize. Castiel looked between the two.

“It would take strength. I would need to ignite Dean’s hand with my grace. If it fires back against me then he has somehow taken on some of my power,” he explained, scowling in an unsettled expression.

“And if it doesn’t?” Dean asked, glancing at his palm and wondering if it would burn under an angel’s “grace.” Was it like a flame? Or just a shining light like UV rays? Who’d have guessed the things would have a name for it.

“Your hand will scar from the intensity, but I can heal that away if it happens,” the angel said, speaking slowly as if he were picking each word with careful particularity. Nothing he’d said about the whole idea sounded like something to be worried about and yet the lines in his face made him look on the verge of vomiting. His skin was pale and both wings were quivering almost imperceptibly.

“So what’s the problem then?”

Castiel inhaled through his nose and glanced over his shoulder at the graying feathers of his right wing. “I don’t know if I have the strength to do even that.” Despite that his body was giving off all the tell-tale signals of a man in pain, on the edge of exhaustion, Castiel’s face showed no sign of weakness. He held his head high and steeled his expression, although the tick in his jaw was obviously shame or even annoyance. The angel didn’t want to admit he wasn’t strong enough. Dean couldn’t blame him, surrounded by people who had grown up killing things just like him, it was no wonder he wanted to at least look like he could fight his way out if need be.

“You don’t think you can muster a few volts just to figure this out? I mean what if this is some cancerous angel virus that’ll kill me by tomorrow? We don’t exactly have time to sit around and wait for you to recharge your batteries,” Dean said, ignoring the glare Sam shot him for being so quip. It wasn’t like Castiel was brought to their camp for any reason outside of fixing Dean. He was a tool, something to be made useful. If he couldn’t serve his purpose then what was point of him being there in the first place?

Castiel’s shoulders fell just slightly and he nodded. “You’re right. I owe you both this at least.” His voice was rougher but he seemed sincere. Dean wasn’t quite sure why Sam had been included, he wasn’t the one who’d gotten his brain poked around in by an angel with greedy fingers. Dean just chalked it up to whatever kind of bonding session the two of them must have had on their trip back here from the floodplains. Although the idea didn’t sit any better in his stomach.

“You don’t have to do it if you’re just gonna burn yourself out, Castiel,” Sam interjected and he had that furrow in his brow, the one that toed the thin line between genuine concern and full blown puppy eyes. Dean’s lip curled and he raised his hand before Castiel could catch a glimpse of those giant dewy eyes staring into his soul. No doubt, even the angel wouldn’t be able to say no and they’d both be in the shit.

“Here,” he said, fingers splaying to show the light lines in between them. Castiel complied with only a slight hesitance, wings trembling again and the sheen of their feathers absent. His fingers were thinner than Dean’s as they lined up, but roughly the same length despite the angel’s shorter stature. The rough calluses on their palms caught against each other and Dean swallowed down the bubbling anxiety in his throat.

He felt the buzz before he saw anything. A steady hum vibrating across the planes of his hand like the threat of static electricity. The orange glow intensified, veins so luminescent it was practically outshining his skin. He wanted to ask if that was the power, the angel grace, but then two things happened in quick succession.

The glow vanished from Dean’s skin, his entire body dark without the fire in his veins. And a burst of white light exploded from between their hands, searing so hot it was almost cold as if Dean’s nerve endings were being burned away. He couldn’t help the flinch and kneejerk reaction to pull back but he couldn’t move. Castiel’s blue eyes, barely visible past the glow, widened at the pale empty expanse of Dean’s skin and he immediately yanked back.

Their hands disconnected with an audible crackle and Castiel stumbled hard into John’s bed frame as his grace faded. He must’ve jostled the broken wing against the metal piping because he was doubling over on himself. Dean had only just caught a glimpse of a face contorted in pain before Castiel was convulsing, arms wound around his torso to keep himself from falling apart in the wracking violent shocks of agony. Dean’s attention faltered to Sam who’d grabbed his hand, still numb with cold, to check it over.

The pink, raw flesh of his palm was scarred over with a fractal pattern like naked tree branches, spider-webbing across the burned off skin. It didn’t hurt so much as startle Dean, the intricate, weaving lines like some sort of artistic piece splashed over his hand. Sam caught his eye, a question, a reassurance behind those green-blue irises. Dean nodded and his brother let him go to duck down beside Castiel, muttering something to the angel that Dean couldn’t understand.

“That’s a burn if I’ve ever seen one.” Amelia’s surprisingly calm voice amid grunts of pain, unintelligible words, and the buzzing in Dean’s head, was enough to shake him out of his stupor. He couldn’t feel her fingers against his skin but he knew she must be touching him as his hand was flopping this way and that. She had procured a bandage from somewhere, it was moist with something that smelled chemical, and she laid it over the scalded flesh. Dean watched with a quiet hiss under his breath, the cool ooze not quite at the soothing level yet.

Amelia taped the gauze down and gave it a light pat. “It’ll scar. But I have a feeling the angel can fix it for you when he’s patched up.” She gave Castiel and Sam a cursory glance, her eyes tracking over Castiel’s wing. “That wing is shattered, Sam.”

Sam, crouched next to the angel and careful not to touch him, said, “I know, I had it set and wrapped earlier but he tore it free and refractured everything when he saved Krissy. She fell from the watchtower fighting off an angel.”

Dean processed that one, cradling his numb hand against his stomach. So the angel had tallied up two saved lives without any discernible motive and brought three others out of comas that he hadn’t induced. Either Castiel just got even more suspicious or he really was just trying to help. If the way he was shivering, skin completely colorless, was anything to go by Dean was inclined towards the latter, only because he’d done that to himself for Dean. And that had to count for _something._ Maybe he didn’t trust the angel yet (and he probably never would) but he could sleep at night without keeping an eye open at least.

“Krissy’s okay though?” Amelia asked, leaning closer to the broken wing for a better look. Castiel flinched when he caught her in his periphery, the movement bringing him right up against Sam’s knee. Neither of them moved, save for Sam’s hesitant nod, his attention obviously trained on the angel. Amelia smiled, a small soft thing. “Well alright then. We better get this guy fixed up.”

She bent at the foot of Dean’s bed, keeping a good two or so feet out of the angel’s personal space. “How’s he get about others touching his wings?” The question was obviously directed at Sam, but Castiel’s head shot up instantly. He had a vicious expression on his face, eyes drilling right into Amelia’s, snarl already on his lips.

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” he growled and his voice didn’t so much as waver. Dean rolled his eyes to mask the minute spark of apprehension in his gut. The room was tense, all four of them on the precipice of doing something rash and violent. And then Castiel’s entire body shook so hard it was more like a spasm.

He was unconscious before he could hit the tiled flooring. Not that he would have with Sam jumping forward to catch him, his big arms wound around his waist and the giant black wings collapsing around them. Dean smirked. “Nice catch, Sasquatch.”

 

~

 

Castiel loathed nothing more than losing consciousness. He had never succumbed to pain so often before, which could only mean the damage to his wing was far more severe than he had initially thought. There was no doubt in his mind that the bones were fractured, the more worrying prospect was if the injuries were irreparable. What if he could never fly again?

He wanted to hurt something, throw his fist into the metal surface beneath him, kick his foot through a wall, anything to take the frustration from his system. It was a particularly human impulse, not something one would find an angel doing, and he blamed Dean’s soul for that. The more rational part of him, the one that belonged solely to Castiel, figured that causing more pain to himself was only going to exacerbate the problem and even make the humans surrounding him uneasy.

“From looking at it, I’d say at least two fractures,” the doctor, Amelia, said in a tone that was far lighter than Castiel thought fit the situation. He had woken up on a metal table and he could only assume all three of them had worked together to get him there. Dean had apparently offered his aid as he was now occupying the closest hospital bed and observing them with a curious, open-mouthed expression. The idea of Dean and Amelia having access to the vital parts of his human body while he was unconscious was unnerving and set Castiel’s teeth grinding. He refused to even think about Sam’s part in the ordeal.

“Probably snapped in two here.” Castiel could feel the proximity of Amelia’s hand to the forebone of his wing and his body tensed reflexively. “The radius. And the wrist is definitely broken, but hopefully not shattered.”

“They have wrists?” Dean asked from his safely distanced position about five steps away. Castiel ignored the pinched look on his face and tried to catch a glimpse of Amelia’s exact position in reference to him. He wouldn’t be able to control himself if she so much as accidentally brushed up against one of his feathers. Sam was standing beside her, mindful of Castiel’s left wing that he had curled out of the way so that the doctor could observe the injures closely.

“The anatomy of a wing isn’t too different from a human’s arm. But this is all just guesswork, I can’t be sure unless I feel it,” Amelia said and Castiel’s tense muscles refused to unclench, the feathers in his left wing puffing out involuntarily. “Which I can see isn’t gonna happen anytime soon. Is it the pain he’s worried about? I have anesthetic.” She addressed the question to Sam as if Castiel left his well-being strictly in his care. It was only slightly insulting. Castiel didn’t expect much different walking into a compound populated by hunters.

“Castiel?” Sam prompted, successfully diverting the task of answering to him. It was the sort of gesture Castiel expected from him and he allowed his wing to flutter a little closer than before. After all, no one (especially an infinitely powerful angel like himself) appreciated being treated like nothing more than a mindless animal. Even if angels didn’t have much respect for humans they at least knew that the creatures were far superior to the rest of the planet’s inhabitants and, for that, deserved to be treated as such. One would think they’d want to know about their enemy before they began slaughtering them in droves.

“I do not like mine touched,” Castiel stated plainly, because that fact was obvious and he needed time to think about his wording. He had never had to ask Uriel why their wings reacted the way that they did to the touch of another, he didn’t have to. Their wings were the only part of the body they inhabited that they could truly call their own. The hands they used to Purify once belonged to a human, the feet they ran on, the lungs they breathed with. Wings were an angel’s and no other, therefore they were not to be touched without implicit permissions.

“It’s invasive and intimate,” Castiel continued, brushing the tail of his wing against the flooring. “Imagine another living thing touching the back of your neck when you’re unaware. It is unsettling,” Castiel struggled to explain, his human face twisted into a scowl. Judging from Jimmy Novak’s memories, the back of a human’s neck was the only part of the body even remotely similar. The feeling was nowhere as agitating, but Castiel hoped the humans would understand.

It was silent for a long while. Amelia made a sound in the back of her throat that Castiel would liken to comprehension. “But how did Sam get the first bandaging on you if it’s like this?” she asked, moving around the metal table to face Castiel. It was strange being spoken to on an equal plane with a human that wasn’t Sam and Castiel had to blink a couple times to readjust his perspective of this woman.

“Sam would not have gotten any purchase on my wings had I been conscious,” Castiel said and his voice was low and warning. He would not allow any similar acts to be perpetrated again without his consent. While the binding of his broken limb had saved him more severe pain, he could not forget the torture of feeling so helpless and uneasy, so trapped. Even if that instinctive desperation had gradually eased away with Sam’s hands, nothing but careful, pressing hot into his feathers. Castiel was better not thinking about it.

“I’m so sorry.” The sound of Sam’s voice coupled with the memory of his palms against Castiel’s wings sent his black feathers rippling. He turned to look back over his shoulder, eyes growing wide at what he saw there. Sam’s brows were pulled together, his oddly colored irises shining wet in the kind of expression that Castiel had seen before through Dean’s soul. It was a face that was earnestly apologetic, heartbroken. It made Castiel’s skin warm. “I didn’t know it felt like that. I’m so sorry, Castiel.”

He had never been so pleased to hear his name spoken by anyone before and with an expression like that on Sam’s face, Castiel was grateful he managed not to preen in all the attention. He settled instead for the accidental shift of his left wing, the primary feathers not a breath away from the heat of Sam’s bared forearm. Castiel didn’t miss the irony in how desperate he suddenly was to reassure Sam with the brush of his wing. It was a gesture of his own kind to offer comfort in feathers, but he had never felt the urge with a human.

“It’s fine, Sam,” he said, nothing more than a rumble in his chest. He couldn’t maintain eye contact lest he do something rash and wrap Sam up in his left wing. Castiel blinked, tearing his gaze back to Amelia. He was obviously lacking the rightness of mind if he was even so much as entertaining thoughts like that. Perhaps losing consciousness took more of a toll on his human body than he had previously believed. Which is why he was even more stunned when the next words came out of his mouth, “I think I can bear them to be touched if it’s Sam.”

He said this to Amelia, her eyebrows raising with each syllable until she was cutting her eyes to Sam, big and imploring. Castiel missed the conversation they had with their glances, distracted by the sheer prospect of Sam’s big hands under his feathers again, wracking shivers down his spine and crawling nerves under his flesh. Coupled with the urge to flee, to fly, but being wholly unable and bursting from his bones with the want for it. Feelings akin to torture simply because Castiel spoke on an unfounded impulse. He often said things he should have been quiet about and it never ceased to get him into trouble.

“Why _Sam?_ Aren’t you, I dunno, traumatized from the last time? PTSD?” Dean was scowling at Castiel, a protective punch to the chest. With how well he knew Dean’s soul and after what might’ve been left behind in its place, Castiel was positive he could read the older Winchester perfectly and without difficulty. Where with Sam he constantly found himself at a loss and desperately grasping for something recognizable, Dean would be an open book.

“Sam is familiar. He’s already wrapped my wing before. I trust him not to hurt me,” Castiel said simply, keeping an unyielding stare locked with Dean’s narrowed eyes. The majority of what he had said was the truth. Castiel did find Sam familiar and he was by far the only human he enjoyed the company of and he had helped Castiel heal in that pit the day prior. But Castiel didn’t trust Sam Winchester not to hurt him. He would be foolish to do so no matter how much he wished he could. If there was anything he learned about Sam from his older brother’s soul, it was that he would do whatever it took to keep his family safe. And Castiel was not his family.

Dean had no reply for Castiel and Sam cut in, stumbling and unsure, “I don’t- I’m not a doctor, how am I supposed to help? I have no idea what to do.” His voice wavered under Amelia’s hard stare and he shifted his weight enough to brush his arm against Castiel’s left wing. It was just a tiny brush of skin against feather, but Castiel sat up just bit straighter at the sudden contact. Sam didn’t miss the reaction and recoiled immediately with another hushed, “sorry.”

“Stop apologizing and hurry up, Sammy. We don’t have all day for this. I could start glowing any second now and the angel’s gotta be conscious to figure it out,” Dean said, adopting a dull expression and rubbing at the pale skin of his wrist. Castiel kept his left wing at a distance to avoid another run in that might make Sam skittish again. He would have never thought it would be Sam reluctant in the given situation.

Amelia stepped around the table to stand behind Castiel’s injured wing, maintaining a gratuitous amount of space between her and the frail limb. She put a hand on Sam’s shoulder and Castiel watched her squeeze into the muscle with blank eyes from over the bend of his wing. “I’ll tell you what to feel for. Just a few bumps, a little pressure so I can really get the whole picture. Then we can get him bandaged up and he’ll be good to go.”

There was a deep inhale, Sam’s broad chest rising and he brushed his fingers through his hair in a gesture he seemed to do when he was anxious. Castiel filed it away as something he had learned without the aid of Dean’s soul. “Okay,” Sam said on an exhale, eyes traveling along the length of Castiel’s injured wing. “Okay but, Castiel, you have to tell me if it starts hurting or you feel like you’re gonna jump outta your skin.”

Sam’s gaze caught Castiel’s and the hard line of his brow was firm, jaw set. He was serious and he needed to know that Castiel wouldn’t be in the same situation as the last time his wings were bandaged up. Castiel offered a short nod and looked forward immediately. He had high doubts that he would break so easily, show weakness in that way. Especially in front of Sam. No, even if it was unbearable and he was on the verge of tearing his wings free, he would not ask him to stop. Castiel was an angel and he was strong.

“I’m ready if you’re ready,” Amelia said and bent so close to the fractured bones of his wing Castiel could feel her breath. He fought the urge to shudder.

Initially, he thought she was talking to Sam but there was no immediate reply so he said, “I’m ready.” He steeled his shoulders, bracing his fingers around the metal table edge, and clenched his teeth. His injured wing had maintained the same position for so long, curled in close to his back to make it as small as possible, that unfolding it wasn’t going to be an easy feat. The slightest hint of movement sent the familiar waves of pain up the column of his neck along the spine. The joints creaked as if with disuse when he forced it to unwind, grunting at the fresh agony causing the feathers to quiver.

His left wing scratched back and forth across the tiles in agitation as he bit down and forced the right wing to extend in one forceful push. The tendons and muscles strained, possibly even tore, at the abrupt uncoiling and the broken hollowed bones cracked audibly, grinding. Castiel cried out at the throbbing pangs vibrating down the limb, knees raising and fists clutching the table so hard it started to give under the pressure. He had to fight to keep the wing elevated as it sagged, barely held aloft with the amount of shredded ligaments left. It was shaking violently, one or two feathers, almost gray from stress, shook loose and fluttered to the ground.

Castiel was breathing in and out through his nose, harsh and repetitive until he found the pain bearable. He was thankful for the quiet as he did so, managing to force the tremors to subside. He didn’t bother trying to calm the rapidly beating heart in his chest. It’d only spark up again as soon as Sam’s hands push into the plush of his feathers. Castiel kept his gaze on a fixed point, staring intently at a scuff on the floor and refusing to relent. “I’m okay,” he bit out through grinding teeth.

“Sam, I probably don’t have to remind you to be really careful, I mean like _really_ careful.” Amelia’s voice was less the actual sound in Castiel’s ears and more the feel of the breath brushing the feathers. He didn’t bother listening further, only concentrated on not blacking out, on ignoring the agony lighting up every inch of his skin like a live electrical wire.

When Sam’s wide palm pressed into the bare center of Castiel’s back, it wasn’t a shock so much as a blessing. The taut ball of muscle situated in the small expanse of skin between the bases of his wings began to unwind under the warm pressure and Castiel felt the tension in his upper torso give way. The pain was ever present, but Sam’s hand against his back gave him something to focus on rather than the white tile. His breathing steadily evened as he unfurled from his doubled over position, sitting up straighter and pushing back imperceptibly against Sam’s palm.

There was nothing else but that relaxing weight at Castiel’s back for a few long moments. Faintly, he registered Amelia’s voice. Then Sam’s other hand was brushing the downy feathers at the base of Castiel’s injured wing, eliciting a tense shoulder muscle and a shiver that rattled down to his core. He puffed out a breath and squeezed his eyes closed, trying to refocus his attention on the calming hand on his back. It was only mildly effective as Sam’s fingers ghosted across the feathers, a touch so delicate Castiel’s wing wavered up and down, conflicted on whether he would rather push in or pull away.

Castiel’s skin felt too tight as Sam neared the first fracture in the wing. He was struck with urge to leap from the table and kick off into the air, body tensing in preparation, muscles humming with the need. But Sam’s hand slid from his back to grip the thick muscle between shoulder and neck. He buried his fingers into Castiel’s skin, hard enough to bruise. The small pain, a fraction of what his wing was shooting down to his bones, was grounding, a welcome distraction. It was just the way Amelia had assured Sam only moments earlier and Castiel’s neck warmed at the idea.

He was suitably brought back from the edge of hysteria by the tight grip at his collarbone even when Sam’s fingers gently felt along the bone fractures. The inevitable pain from the pokes and prods against the shattered bone caused bright spots to flicker across Castiel’s vision but he never lost consciousness. His mind was firmly anchored in the hand that squeezed him hard, in the bruises that would remain there even after he was healed.

Castiel’s eyes were still closed when Sam’s hands pulled back altogether. He swept his injured wing forward, careful of the fractures and rested what he could of it on the metal table beside him and blinked his eyes open. The medical room was bright and as his pupils contracted in the lights, he suddenly felt a large human hand slide underneath the larger feathers at the end of his left wing, running through them the way Sam’s fingers did his hair.

“Okay?” Sam asked roughly and Castiel couldn’t discern if he was asking after his well-being or requesting permissions. Either way, Castiel’s wing pressed into the surprising gesture without so much as a wince, the pleasant relieved feeling akin to an itch that was finally getting scratched. Castiel practically melted into it, slumping forward as Sam’s warm fingers sent sparks of sensation flying after them. He heard Sam’s incredulous laugh when his hand glided free and Castiel’s wing trailed after him.

The sound brought Castiel back to himself immediately and he whipped his left wing in close, face burning hot in some emotion that must have come with the human body. Castiel didn’t like whatever it was, his stomach fluttering uncomfortably along with the pink hue expanding down his neck and chest. Jimmy Novak’s memories named it something like embarrassment and Castiel found himself wishing his left wing had been the broken one.

“Seems like you’re getting _real_ used to it,” Dean’s rough voice intoned and Castiel caught the raised cheek of a smirk on his face. He leveled him with a narrowed eyed glare while he pried his fingers loose from the dented metal of the operating table underneath him. Dean observed the action and was suitably cowed into a cocky silence.

“It’s good news, Castiel,” Amelia said with a wide smile as she turned to the cabinets that lined the back wall of the room, presumably to gather the things for dressing his wing. “I was worried the wrist was completely shattered,” she reached high and pulled out a thick package of bandaging. “But turns out it was actually just your upper metacarpus that broke. It’s an impacted fracture which is why you’re feeling that grinding sensation. The other is in the radius and a simple break like I said before.”

Her arms were filled with bandaging and tape as she ducked down to unlock a glass storage case off to the side. “This is a good thing, probably your best case scenario, because those types heal fast and don’t need any surgery. If you stay off the wing after it’s wrapped up tight and let it heal, you should be fine in a few weeks.” She emerged with a syringe and a small bottle not unlike the one she had used when she sedated John Winchester. Castiel eyed it as she neared and set the objects spread out on a tray beside the table. “If you get your strength back and use some of that nifty healing power, you’ll be back to yourself in no time.”

“That’s good news,” Sam said with a small smile, his eyes darting back to Castiel’s left wing every few seconds. That childlike awe from Dean’s memories flashed across Castiel’s vision and he hurriedly quelled the urge to flare his wing out for Sam to touch again, just to see it in the flesh.

“This is anesthetic,” Amelia said, raising the small bottle up for Castiel to read. “Procaine will just numb the area of the wing that hurts, keep it from causing too much of a fuss while we bind it up. I don’t actually know if it works on angels, but we can try, right?”

“I’m not going to fall unconscious?” Castiel refused to lose time again. Nothing was quite as unnerving as blacking out only to awaken confused, disoriented, and at the mercy of the humans around you.

“Nope, just lose some feeling.”

Castiel felt weak for it but he glanced over at Sam for some sort of reassurance that this doctor was exactly what she seemed. Sam gave a short nod and Castiel mimicked the movement to Amelia. She smiled wider and stuck the end of the needle through the lid, filling the syringe with clear liquid. “Do you want Sam to inject it?”

He wanted to say yes for the sheer reason that Sam’s hands felt nice on his feathers and that a foreign touch would send him into shivers. But the way that Amelia assumed he would need Sam to do it, (seemed to think he wouldn’t be able to stand anyone else) set Castiel’s teeth on edge. He was not dependent and her hands would only need to steady his wing for a fraction of a moment to stick the needle in. Not excluding the fact that she was obviously much more knowledgeable in the subject than Sam seemed to be and would be able to do it properly without any mistakes. It made more sense if it were her.

And Castiel was not quite over Sam pushing his fingers into his feathers, he didn’t want to encourage such impulsive actions. “You can do it,” Castiel finally said and was pleased with Amelia’s plain surprise at his words.

“Oh, okay then,” she murmured, stepping close with a short glance in Sam’s direction and a one-shoulder shrug. “It’ll just be a pinch.” Her cold fingers wound around the unhurt area of Castiel’s wing and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, feathers bristling against his will. He quivered, eyes screwing shut again, swallowing the jump in his gut that screamed for him to pull free. Amelia hesitated, hand still gently clasping the bend of his wing, and Castiel was an instant from prying himself loose and running.

It shouldn’t have been so utterly distracting as it was to have Sam’s hands suddenly tracing along the bones in his left wing. The sensation of his curious fingers, hedging along the undermost feathers and exploring the bends and creases, had Castiel’s attention completely riveted. Every part of his body was lit up with warm, tingling sensations that made him want to do little more than bury himself in comfort and never resurface.

Comfort had always existed as an amorphous, rapidly changing concept. It could be a thick, high branch on a cool day. Or the squish of mud between his toes under the cold stream of water. Or even the bright sunlight heating up his skin as he flies just shy of the towering trees, wings breathing in the freshest possible air between their feathers. In this moment, however, comfort existed only as Sam Winchester, pressed up tightly against his warmth, feeling the light of his bright soul through the fabric of his clothing and the expanse of his skin. Castiel allowed himself to fall deep into the comfort Sam’s presence offered as Sam examined his wings with the natural inquisitiveness he had always had.

Amid the hushed murmurs of Sam’s, “man I wish I had a journal right now” and “this is _beautiful_ ”, Castiel finally heard Amelia clap her hands together with a laugh. “Done! You’re all wrapped up, Castiel,” she was saying when he snapped to attention, regarding her with hazy eyes. “It’s my first time ever working on an angel wing. But I gotta say I’m proud of this.”

The injured wing was wound tightly in white bandaging, secured in what felt like stiff cast to keep it from shifting as it curved towards Castiel’s torso. It was comfortable and not a position that would likely impede Castiel’s movements. The pain that he’d completely forgotten in the midst of Sam’s attentions was gone but for a dull throb that hardly bothered Castiel at all. He nodded to Amelia in a silent gesture of gratitude, unsure of his ability to hold a coherent conversation with Sam still poring over his wing like an overeager child. She smiled and went to clear off the materials.

Sam was supporting the tail end of Castiel’s wing, buried up to his elbows in black feathers, as he held it close to his face and examined it with a wide smile. Castiel could feel each and every fingertip encompassed in his feathers an unbidden urge to pull Sam in close struck him so fiercely he almost couldn’t stop himself. He wanted to wrap Sam’s tall form up in his giant wing, encircle him completely and protect him, protect this awestruck state of his. Keep him safe and happy at his side, under his wing.

“Sam, seriously, it’s a wing,” Dean interjected, half-lidded eyes obviously unimpressed with the situation. He pulled Castiel from his wishful imaginings, entirely unfounded imaginings, and it took everything in Castiel’s willpower to gently extract his left wing from Sam’s warm hands.

“Sam,” Castiel addressed, holding his wing up and behind him at its full length. It extended back to touch the wall and it felt nice to stretch it out, even if he was already craving the feeling of comfort and familiarity. Sam watched his wing with a quirk of his lips, not a smirk but something fonder, and came within reaching distance. Castiel didn’t miss that his fond expression remained even when his eyes left the black wing and met Castiel’s. “Thank you,” Castiel said, feathers fluttering and stomach clenching.

The swollen lump on Sam’s jaw had faded only somewhat since his father had accidentally landed a blow there and when Sam grinned big at Castiel, he winced. Castiel frowned and raised his hand to press his palm against the wound, felt the skin beneath right itself with just a small surge of grace through his system. Sam’s nose scrunched up in confusion and then surprise as Castiel dropped his hand and he opened his mouth to speak.

The large metal doors swung open and Castiel curled in his left wing as fast as he possibly could, nearly knocking himself over with the need to appear smaller. Three hunters limped inside, two men and one woman. One was only a child, much like the girl named Krissy. Blood coated his face and his head lolled to the side as the other two supported him. None of them were Sam’s friends from before and Castiel tensed. Amelia and Dean rushed to offer help, lifting the severely injured boy from their arms and settling him in an empty bed. The other two hunters weren’t without wounds, but it appeared most of it was superficial.

Castiel couldn’t take his eyes off the weapon swung around the woman’s torso, resting under her arm and nearly as tall as she was. Sam’s hand patted Castiel’s knee twice in some form of reassurance and that was when he noticed the two adult hunters were staring him down, tense and unyielding. The man’s gaze cut away to look over John Winchester’s still sedate body and then scanned over the arch of Castiel’s wing. The woman, a face Castiel found somewhat familiar, merely regarded him with black, unfeeling eyes. He felt exposed, naked with all his weaknesses on display for every hunter to see.

The two of them started towards Castiel and Sam, but Dean intercepted them with his hands raised and a smile that crinkled his eyes. “Hey, sorry guys the angel’s with us,” he said, laughing a hollow exhale. Castiel wouldn’t say he expected Dean to simply allow a pair of bullets to blast through his brain, but he was surprised to see him standing between Castiel and that fate without a moment’s hesitation.

“We’ve heard. Bobby and Ellen briefed us,” the woman said and her voice was as cold and harsh as Castiel had expected it to be. The sound made his wings cling closer to his back and he couldn’t fathom where he recognized her from.

“Ah, that’s good,” Dean replied still stuffed full of fake bravado. “Mind putting those beauties over there then?” He indicated to the guns with a pointed finger. The two hunters hesitated for a short moment, both glancing up at Castiel through narrowed eyes that had him searching for any exit other than the two doors behind them. He found nothing and he opted for brushing the tail of his wing back and forth against the floor in agitation.

They extricated their weapons onto a bed and Dean finally allowed them closer, allowed them access to Sam with his creased brow and wound posture. Castiel didn’t so much as breathe as they came within a few steps of the metal table. “How are they doing out there?” Sam asked, breaking the odd silence that had fallen over them all.

“...We’re doing well considering the situation. I have a feeling there’ll be more of us in here than out soon enough though,” the male said and he looked sick, hand pressing into his side as if in pain. The woman shot him a frown that must’ve been of concern and then turned to Amelia who was still tending to the boy’s wound.

Castiel took a chance. He was smart and he couldn’t stay in the camp for any amount of time if all of the hunters were going to watch his every move, awaiting an opportunity to kill him and cut his wings off. “Are you hurt?” he asked the man and tilted his head, frowning. The woman turned back immediately, suspicion clear on her features.

“I, uh, damn I’ve never heard one of you talk before,” the man said and his hand pressed tighter to his abdomen. He traded looks with Sam and Dean before finally answering, “um, yeah. Wayside bullet went straight through.”

“Show me,” Castiel said and was surprised when the hunter complied after another quick glance at Sam, obviously trusting his opinion. He raised damp shirt and peeled away the brown gauze practically soaked through with dried blood. It was merely a slice through his side, two edges ripped apart by the cut of a bullet and easily mended. Castiel nodded. He could heal that.

“The wound isn’t severe now, but it will get infected if you don’t close it soon,” Castiel said, looking the hunter in the eye and unendingly curious at the lack of hatred he found there. “I can close it.”

Castiel was pressing rough fingers against torn skin when John Winchester woke up, grabbed the hunter’s rifle, and aimed it at his head.

“What in the _hell_ is going on here?”

 

~

 

“...and Jo screamed when she saw Castiel’s wings so we got him away from her after waking up Ellen. Then they told us what happened to you all,” Sam hesitated at this moment in his retelling of every single incident and ounce of knowledge he’d gained since John had been rendered comatose and then later sedated. He was perched on the edge of Dean’s abandoned bed, across from John who sat with his elbows on his knees and his hands folded in front of his face for the better part of the explanation. He’d also been worryingly silent throughout the hour it took to get to this point.

Castiel had healed Don, though it’d taken something out of him and he was currently on the bed beside the injured kid to help fix him when he felt up to it. Dean had gotten Amelia’s reluctant permission to head back out with a fresh Don and Tamara so that he could find Bobby and Ellen to relay the news about John. Sam hadn’t let him out of Medical without a jacket in case he started glowing again with no one around to keep out of the stray angel’s eye.

“Both of them said they remembered a white winged angel. She was a girl, wearing pretty fresh clothes, and she took out the angels trying to kill you guys. Jo said she heard her say something but didn’t really process it, ‘cause of the whole angels can’t talk thing,” Sam continued when John didn’t seem to be up to elaborating on the ordeal. “Then she put you guys in comas. That’s all Bobby and I could get from them.”

John, eyes fixed on the opposite wall for all but a few points of Sam’s story (and those were for disapproval of some reckless decisions), finally sat up straight to rest his palms on his knees. “She said her name was Anna and that she saved us. Red hair and I’m talking bright red, the unnatural kind. And her _clothes,_ Sam,” John paused, shaking his head and scratching his beard. “Her clothes had holes cut into them. The back was cut to make room for her wings. When have we _ever_ seen something like that?”

Never. All angels anyone had ever seen were topless or covered in the shredded remains of their shirts. The wings bursting through the flesh generally made it difficult for blouses to stay intact. And even with the revelation that angels were far more intelligent than they’d thought, it still appeared they didn’t give two fucks about human clothing. Sam pointed at Castiel from where he sat comfortably on the bed across the room with an questioning look in his dad’s direction. John nodded, allowing his head to fall back into his hands and taking the opportunity to run his hands through his hair.

“Castiel?” The angel perked up immediately from the wing he had been idly picking foliage out of. “Have you ever heard of an angel wearing clothing on purpose? Like a shirt or a jacket with holes for the wings?” Sam asked and Castiel frowned, shook his head. “What about an angel named Anna?” Another negative. Sam nodded his thanks and turned back to John who’d been watching the interaction with an unreadable expression.

“Something’s off. Normally, I’d think this Anna was an angel like Castiel. I mean, he did save me. But he obviously didn’t make a habit of hanging out with humans and Anna sounds like she knows her way around, plus she put you three in comas. Then there’s the white wings,” Sam said and scratched the back of his head, at a loss.

“The white wings are what I’m most concerned about. There’ve only been one or two sightings of an angel with pure white feathers for as long as I’ve been hunting these things. And now one just shows up on our doorstep and murders it’s own kind? On the same day, my son is comatose and glowing from a botched Purification? And angels are throwing themselves at our walls? And you find that,” he tilted his head in Castiel’s direction, “out in the floodplains? They’re all related there’s not a doubt in my mind. But I don’t think we can figure it out until we understand Dean’s condition.”

“Which is the only reason I’m not going to say a thing about you bringing an angel into the goddamn camp, Son. You two figure out what the hell is wrong with Dean and how to fix it. The rest of us will fight off these things as long as it takes,” John said and he stood to his feet. “And we’ll worry about Anna when she gets here.”

Sam followed suit, standing up so fast the tear in his bloody shirt fell over the slope of his shoulder. He quickly readjusted the crusty plaid material to sit on him better and his hands came away covered in flaky brown. John took one hard look at him and sighed. “I have a feeling Dean got caught up at the gates with another angel attack instead of retrieving like I said. I’m going to make sure Bobby, Ellen, and the others spread what we know about the angels as quickly as possible,” Sam opened his mouth but John beat him to it. “I’ll make sure your angel is made well aware of too. Now go get washed up, you smell like a carcass.”

John moved past Sam and started towards the metal doors. He must’ve caught a glimpse of Castiel in his peripheral, because he threw, “hose him down too, he looks as bad you do,” over his shoulder before taking his leave.

A strand of sweat-soaked hair fell into Sam’s face just as the door swung shut and he rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. Maybe he _should_ take a shower or at least run his head under some running water. “Castiel?”

They took the back ways around camp despite Don and Tamara’s earlier promises to get the word out as soon and as convincingly as possible. Sam never really trusted hunters with word of mouth messages especially about the things they hunted. He and Castiel were skirting the edges of camp, weaving between the buildings and the large exterior walls, heading in the direction of the Winchester’s house for the running water and a change of clothes. They walked in relative silence, Castiel observing and mapping the area wordlessly and Sam thinking over all the things he and John had talked about.

Sam’s mind was bursting with curiosities about the angel Anna and what she could possibly want from their camp. Could she be behind the sudden surge of angel attacks? Or was she merely reaping the benefits? And what were those benefits? Was it possible Anna could even be responsible for what was wrong with Dean or was that all Castiel?

“Who is Anna?” Castiel asked abruptly as if reading the thoughts written on Sam’s face. Sam slicked his dirty hair out of his eyes.

“The angel who put my family in a coma,” he explained simply, chancing a glance at the angel beside him. Castiel nodded solemnly and they continued on in silence. Sam wondered if now would be a good time to ask Castiel about wing color in relation to the superiority of an angel. Not only that but even the thousands of questions still flopping around in his head ever since Castiel let him touch his wings.

He’d felt terrible when the angel described what it was like to even so much as graze the feathers of his wings. It sounded so invasive and wrong for him to have just forced Castiel to deal with the torture he must’ve been feeling at the time, on top of the pain of a broken wing. Sam hoped being there and offering some sort of comfort to him when he was obviously overwhelmed somehow made up for his earlier actions, at least a little.

Not that he ran his fingers through those glossy black feathers strictly for Castiel’s benefit. Sam had been in complete awe of them ever since he first saw the one outstretched before him in that clearing, royal blue undertones shining in the dimming sunlight. He wanted to know how they worked, their design, the way they felt against his skin. As a kid, the wings had always seemed like this faraway thing, unreal. It seemed impossible that he would one day be fluffing one up with his bare hands, along with the added bonus of making the owner of it turn dark red from all the touching.

That was another thing Sam was dying to ask about. Castiel, for all his power and independence, could blush like a shy little kid and make himself look so much smaller with those giant wings. Sam had to admit, for a being that could rip him to pieces Castiel was very cute in a baby bird sort of way. He wanted to tuck him under his arm and keep him safe from all the mean hunters in the world. Which was a ridiculous though in itself because Sam had no doubt in his mind that Castiel could take care of himself. And his wings were taller than Sam even if the angel himself was only up to his nose. Maybe it was those big blue eyes.

They rounded on the Winchester’s house then and Sam was forced to stop that strange line of thinking. He was halfway up the shoddily made steps when he hesitated. “I have a feeling you won’t wanna come inside? I don’t think our place is big enough for your wings to fit comfortably. Especially not our shower,” Sam said, opening the front door to peer inside anyway. Definitely not.

“That is fine. I’ll just stay out here until you’re done,” Castiel said placidly, already passing Sam to the front porch and sitting on the top step without a second’s hesitation. Sam stared down at him and, while he was probably fine on his own for fifteen minutes, he still felt sort of guilty just leaving him there with nothing to do.

“At least let me get something-” Sam froze, a sudden burning question bubbling in his throat. “Wait, Castiel, can you read?”

Castiel had busied himself with maneuvering his wing through the overhang on their front porch and he paused to frown up at Sam. “Yes. I got this body along with all its memories. Jimmy Novak could read,” he said, ending on a somber note. He was quiet then, turning to stare out at the other houses in the compound through narrowed eyes. Sam assumed Jimmy Novak had been the blue-eyed man sitting in front of him once upon a time and as he went inside to find one of Bobby’s journals on angels he wondered if Castiel felt some sort of remorse for Taking that man.

Sam found a leather bound journal about the power angels possessed, their abilities, and their strength. He took it out to Castiel. “Here, this is a journal made up of everything we know about your kind’s power. You should read through it, tell me how much we’ve got wrong. Or, y’know, just laugh at how decades of research can be so completely off.”

“Thank you, Sam,” Castiel said earnestly, taking the journal with something like a tiny smile on his mouth. Sam watched him flip it open to the first page, reading from the beginning with an expression of extreme concentration. Sam chuckled and suddenly felt an overwhelming fondness for this angel sitting on his front porch, reading his stuff. Which was definitely the last thing he needed to be feeling with all the chaos going on. Dean would have a hernia if he so much as suspected it.

“I’ll be back soon,” Sam finally just said, getting out of there to cool off and reevaluate some thoughts he’d been having about Castiel. He’d always thought they were purely scientific, a curiosity he’d always had about angels. But now he was starting to wonder if maybe it was becoming less about angels and more about _the_ angel.

After a quick shower and a change of clothes with those thoughts swirling in his head, Sam headed back to the front porch. He heard Castiel talking with someone before he opened the door and was hoping against all hope it wasn’t some sick hunter planning on luring the angel away to his death. He was surprised to see Jess standing at the foot of the stairs with an amiable smile.

“Oh, hey Sam,” she greeted with a quick wave. “I was just on my way to Medical when I saw this guy sitting on your porch. Don told me about all the stuff he did for the camp, so I thought I’d say thank you.” Sam always knew he’d liked Jess. She was the only one so far who’d taken the whole angel revelation in stride as far as Sam was aware.

“You’re very kind, Jess,” Castiel said with his usual frown. But Sam had a feeling this frown had a little less scowl in it. Jess smiled wide enough to show her teeth.

“It’s no problem, Castiel. You did a lot for us,” she glanced at Sam with wide eyes. “Did you just get out of the shower? You look like a drowned puppy.”

Sam scowled at the damp strands of hair flopping into his face and sighed. “I’m starting to think I’d be better off just cutting it short again,” he admitted, because his hair was honestly on the verge of becoming obnoxious with how often it was in his face and sticking to his neck. Jess’s jaw dropped as if Sam had personally offended her.

“What? No don’t do that! I love your hair,” she said, and quickly pulled a few black bands off her wrist. “Here take these, if it gets annoying just tie it back like the rest of us do.” Sam took the three hair ties and looped them around his own wrist, still not quite sure if he was being made fun of or if Jess was seriously offering him this solution.

“Thanks, I think,” Sam mumbled, picking at the black strand and frowning. He wasn’t even sure he knew how to tie his hair back in the first place. Jess smiled again.

“You better use them,” she said with a pointed look. Before she could threaten him the sound of gunfire echoed through the camp and she nodded solemnly. “That’s my signal to get my ass to Medical. See ya later Sam, bye Castiel!” And without waiting for a response she was rushing off. Sam watched her go, continuing to absently pluck at the hairbands. At least he knew they’d be useful for fidgety hands.

Castiel had returned his attention to the journal, avidly poring over it. Sam leaned closer and saw that he was nearing the end of the entries. He was about to say so when a gust of wind blew his rapidly drying hair into his face. Maybe fate was trying to tell him something and it wasn’t Dean’s constant litany of _‘get a goddamn haircut’_ it was use a goddamn hair tie. Sam plopped down onto the stair step beside Castiel, careful of his bound wing, and gathered his hair to the nape of his neck with his fingers.

He was ashamed to admit that he sat there a good ten minutes trying to coordinate how to hold the hair and get the tie without letting any hairs slip free. It was ridiculously more difficult than Jess made it look on a daily basis and Sam grumbled when his fingers fumbled with the tiny band and almost lost it in the dirt. After three more failed attempts he was on the edge of throwing all the ties in the trash when Castiel closed the journal.

“I’ve finished it, Sam. It took longer than I anticipated due to the terrible handwriting. At some points I don’t think it’s even in English.”

Sam glanced at the book and then back at the Castiel. “Jimmy Novak didn’t happen to know how to tie hair back did he?”

“Yes.” Castiel’s face was completely straight so Sam could only assume he was telling the truth. He tried to imagine Castiel with long hair and decided that wasn’t a road he wanted to go down at the moment.

“You think you could explain the process to me? Preferably in slow step-”

“I can show you,” Castiel said, hopping nimbly to his feet and crouching behind Sam. He pushed at the middle of his shoulder blades. “Move down a few steps.” Dubious, Sam scooted down until his head was level with Castiel’s chest. He couldn’t imagine that of all the skills an angel would possess, tying back others’ hair would be one of them. Sam didn’t even want to think about what he’d do if Dean happened by at this moment.

Castiel situated himself on the top step and put his knees on either side of Sam’s waist, “hand me a tie.” His palm appeared in Sam’s peripheral and he pulled off a band, dropping it into his hand. Sam was currently riding the fence on whether this was an acceptable bonding activity between human and angel or not, when Castiel’s fingers started carding through his hair. He didn’t know why but it felt very different from his own hands as Castiel’s short nails ran along his scalp, leaving a pleasant tingle in their wake. It was like a massage for his head.

A contented sigh slipped past Sam’s lips and he didn’t even notice when Castiel was no longer gathering his hair in the back for a ponytail. Instead, he was fluffing it up with his fingers and letting the strands fall between them silently. Sam raised his eyebrows and tilted his head up to get a look at an upside down Castiel. “What are you doing?” he asked, shaking his hair free from Castiel’s fingers for emphasis.

Castiel regarded him with a quizzical furrow in his brow, head tilted to his left. “Your hair is very soft,” he stated plainly, his face utterly perplexed. Sam’s nose scrunched up in an effort not to laugh but he ended up snorting anyway, a wide smile cracking his face in two.

“Thanks?” He managed to force the word past his smile, breaking it into a full blown toothy grin. “Your wings are pretty soft too.” Castiel stared at him, confusion slowly giving way to an angry red blush. Then he was forcing Sam’s head upright and quickly combing his fingers through his hair. Sam didn’t even get the chance to enjoy the sensation, his hair gathered at the top of his neck and snapped into a tight ponytail before he could even settle back.

“Done,” Castiel said, quieter than usual. Sam leaned forward and patted the little tuft of hair at his nape. It seemed pretty durable. More importantly, Sam could tilt his head any which way without his hair tickling the holy hell out of his face and obstructing his vision.

“Wow, thanks Castiel. This is great. Where did Jimmy Novak learn to do something like this?” he asked, more for conversation’s sake than actual curiosity. He felt a little bad for laughing in Castiel’s face earlier and what better way to distract him? Castiel was leaning back on his hands in a very human pose, oddly relaxed for an angel. Especially one like Castiel.

“Jimmy Novak had a daughter. He had to tie it for her.”

Sam hesitated from where he was still sitting on the second step, resting his elbow on a higher stair and leaning against his palm. Castiel’s tone didn’t betray one thing or another but to Sam he seemed almost morose about the subject of his human body. He wondered if Castiel regretted Taking him or if it was something else. Either way, he seemed to keep Jimmy Novak’s memories close to him, treated the human like he was more than just a vessel. That had to count for something.

The journal lay on the porch abandoned and Sam picked it up for a subject change. “So what in here’s wrong?”

Castiel blinked at him, seemingly just now resurfaced from a stupor. He did that small smile thing and sat up straight. “Where do you want me to start?” Sam’s mouth dropped open much like Jess’s had and he scrambled to his feet.

“Wait wait wait, lemme at least get a pen!”

 

~

 

Dean was missing. According to Dad, nobody had seen him since an angel hit the East gate. Bobby had seen his skin start glowing and told him to get somewhere else. It was nightfall. Sam had been ordered to stay at the house in case Dean came meandering back, while the hunters who cared scoured the place.

“He’s glowing for Christ’s sake how hard can it be to find him the dark?” Sam complained, worry eating away his insides and teasing the urge to vomit. He was not about to lose his dumbass brother right after getting him back just because he felt like taking a nightly stroll looking like a lightning bug. Castiel, who had clambered onto the roof of their house for lookout detail (also Sam suspected he just liked heights), leant over the railing of the porch.

Sam could only see his head, left wing dangling over the edge of the roof like some kind of feathery blanket. His new trenchcoat from the dusty, moth-eaten dregs of Bobby’s closet hung from him like a beige cape. Sam had located it earlier and cut a couple giant holes for his wings. Now Castiel wore it around like it was the only thing he truly owned. “I found him,” he said, all calm demeanor and serious frown. Sam was already pacing back and forth and he rushed down the steps, spotting Dean’s familiar build just a ways down the dirt path.

“Dean?” he yelled, bridging the distance between them. Dean didn’t even make eye contact, he just kept walking towards the house and Sam followed, bending to catch his gaze. “Dean? Dude, where were you?” Dean maintained the whole silent man act and kept going until he was almost at the porch. Before he could start up the stairs, Sam grabbed his shoulder to try and get some sort of reaction.

Dean immediately jerked free with a gravelly, “fuck off, Sam.” But it wasn’t the low rumble that came with anger. It was the shaky, rough voice that grated against Sam’s heart and made him fall short just for an instant. It was the voice that came along with the words _I did something terrible._ With Dean it was hardly ever as bad as he made it out to be and more than likely not his fault. But it always hit him pretty hard anyway.

“Dean what’d you do?” Sam asked and it wasn’t accusatory, it was desperate. Dean stopped in the open doorway, his head bowed like the weight of his entire life was crushing down on him. Sam reached forward again, resting his hand on his shoulder in an attempt to lift even a fraction of that pressure. He felt his brother relax under his palm and his own guard slipped. “Dean?”

Sam barely recoiled in time when Dean whipped around, suddenly on him, and dug his fingers into the collar of Sam’s shirt. He slammed Sam back into the wall of the house and Sam grunted, head knocking back into the wood paneling. Grabbing at Dean’s fists, Sam gasped, “ow, what the fuck Dean?” 

Castiel appeared at the edge of the porch in a flurry of flapping wings and a dirty trench coat. Dean didn’t even notice him, face hardened and eyes red. Sam couldn’t possibly fathom what the hell was getting him so worked up this late at night. But it wasn't like Dean was some animal, he could be reasoned with, whatever the hell was wrong with him. Sam slowly released his brother’s hands, wanting nothing more than to calm him down. “Dean-”

“It’s Anna.” Dean’s strangled voice barely choked past his lips and Sam's face twisted up, utterly confused. When had Dean found about Anna? As far as Sam knew, only he'd been briefed by John about the white-winged angel's name. Maybe John had run into him earlier and relayed the info. It still didn't explain why the fuck Dean was looking like someone had just told him he was responsible for the whole damn apocalypse.

“What does that-” Dean’s blunt fingers clenched in his flannel and Sam shut his mouth.

“It’s Anna, Sam. It’s _her._ The one who attacked you when we were kids, the one I shot and buried and _fuck!_ ” Dean kicked the wall hard enough to rattle the panels and ripped away from Sam, spinning around. Sam could hear his deep, gulping breaths.

“Anna _Milton?_ ” Sam said, incredulous because what the hell would make Dean think a dead girl would be--bright read hair suddenly flashed in Sam’s eyes, a girl with her thin pale arms and her smile too big for her thin face. She was brought in by John on a hunt all those years ago. Dad had found her hiding out in a beat up old car. She’d stuck close to Dean's side, came more out of her shell when he was around. Sam hadn’t minded her, hadn’t really known her.

That was until the wings were tearing out of her skin and she was lunging for him. Sam shook his head to rid it of the image. “But that- Dean you _shot_ her! You got off a whole round, she was bleeding from _everywhere_ there’s no way-”

“I couldn’t do it, Sammy,” Dean abruptly cut in, turning back with shining eyes that caught the porch light. “I couldn’t cut her wings off, I didn’t even check for a pulse. I was so scared it’d be gone, I just- I told you I’d take care of the body and I just dragged her out into the goddamned woods--that fucking cabin--and left her there. I don't- Sam, I thought she'd die on her own. Keep her blood off my hands.”

Sam faltered, replaying what little he could remember of Anna Milton's bloody corpse, blood from the wings tearing her skin, from the bullets embedded in her body. What organs had been pierced in the hail of gunfire, what had escaped intact? Sam clenched his teeth. It was possible now. Anna, the white-winged angel, could possibly be Anna Milton, or at least an angel inhabiting the body of Anna Milton, barely surviving its creation. Sam wanted to work this theory, figure out if this somehow factored into what angel Anna had done to their friends.

But he’d have to wait. Dean was beating the shit out of himself for something he shouldn’t have had to deal with at seventeen anyway, couldn’t have been expected to handle properly. “You were just a kid, Dean,” Sam said quietly, pushing off the wall and putting his hand back on his brother’s shoulder. Dean tensed under his fingers and then shrugged him off, shaking his head.

“Don’t,” he started, voice wavering. He swallowed and jabbed his finger into his chest. “I was never a kid and neither were you. I knew the protocol and I screwed it up and now she’s out there and she almost killed Dad, Ellen, Jo. If they’d died, Sammy, if we lost them that would’a been on me. Because I didn’t do what I was supposed to do, because I was _scared._ ”

“Dean, you can’t-” Sam tried, but Dean put a hand to his chest and gently pushed him back.

“I’m just gonna get some sleep, Sam,” he said. He looked tired, dark circles under his eyes and lines creasing his forehead. He stepped away from Sam, pulling the screen door back and stepping over the threshold. Sam made to go after him, but Castiel’s hand on his arm held him back.

“Let him sleep, Sam,” he said, frowning after Dean’s retreating back. “I think he has carried this burden with him for a while.”

“What does that mean? When you saw his soul you saw _this?_ You knew Anna wasn’t dead?” Sam asked rounding on Castiel. He was overwhelmed and Dean was no longer there for him to throw his desperation at, his anger. How could he not have made the connection? It was the same name, the same wing color, he should’ve known. But he’d had faith in Dean, he’d been so sure his big brother took out the nasty angel like he always had.

“I only saw his guilt,” Castiel said and his face was so much older in that moment, hardened. Sam couldn’t tell if it was Jimmy Novak’s life he was looking at or Castiel’s own burden of Dean’s soul inside him.

Sam suddenly felt exhausted, pressing his palms into his eyes. He wanted nothing more than curl up in his cot and pass out for a good few days. But he and Dean shared a room in their small house and he didn’t know if he could just walk in there knowing Dean had been carrying this around for all these years and he never even noticed. “I think I’m gonna go crash at Bobby’s.”

He stepped off the porch and heard the sound of fluttering feathers behind him. “You're coming with me? Thought angels didn't sleep,” Sam said without turning around, voice rough. Castiel was quiet, noiseless but for the rustle of his trench coat. Sam assumed that meant he would lay claim to Bobby’s roofing as well and they kept walking.

“Sam?” Castiel’s voice was hesitant, meek, and Sam stopped because that wasn’t a sound he was used to hearing from Castiel. The angel caught up to stand beside him and his eyes were impossibly blue in the dark. “I don’t know who Anna is, but you should be aware that Uriel _told_ me we needed to be here, at Salvage. That was why he was picking off and Saving your hunters, to get information from their souls about this place. I don’t know if Anna has anything to do with what Uriel was looking for but I wanted you to know. To help.”

The last two words had Sam blinking and he smiled despite the conflict swirling in the pit of his stomach. It was an interesting bit of information, not to mention that fact that Castiel had essentially chosen to help them, over his own kind. Sam had a feeling that it meant some sort of amiable relationship between the two of them, but he was too exhausted to process that along with Dean's revelation and Uriel's purpose. “Yeah, alright. I think that’ll help a lot, Castiel,” he murmured, and he was sure Castiel could detect the distraction in his tone. He was tired, but he’d probably stay up all night tossing and turning these different bits of information in his head until his brain just gave up and quit. Castiel regarded him through narrowed eyes, quiet.

“Thank you,” Sam finally said, when the silence between them dragged on, hand resting on Bobby’s front door. “For telling me. You didn’t have to.” He was sincere, but his voice was hoarse and he rubbed at his face. This was hardly a conversation meant to be had in the middle of the night, after the row with Dean, but Sam figured Castiel would understand if he wasn't exactly attentive.

Castiel smiled in the dark, fuzzy in Sam's weary vision, and suddenly stepped close. His hand raised to cup around the back of Sam's neck (a split second of alarm spiked in Sam's chest) but then his fingers curled into Sam’s hair and he pulled him down. Sam was blinking in confusion when he felt dry lips press chastely to Sam’s forehead. Before Sam could express any kind of fluster, Castiel released him and nodded, like a soldier who'd just been given an order. “Goodnight, Sam,” he said, adjusting his coat and disappearing around the side of the house.

Sam touched his forehead with a strange expression as he fumbled with Bobby’s door in the dark. Castiel’s odd parting gesture was surely not something angels commonly did. It was the sort of platonic comfort Sam expected a father to do for his daughter, just after tucking her into bed. He wondered if it was perhaps a memory from Jimmy Novak.

Sam pushed inside the house, closing the door behind him. It had also felt oddly reminiscent of Dean. A ghost of affection from some long since faded memories of Sam’s childhood.

Sam smiled and collapsed onto the couch.

 

~

 

Whereas Sam had spent the next two days trading theories between John and Bobby based around the new slew of information he had inadvertently obtained the night before, Dean hid out in Krissy’s watchtower to avoid his family and his responsibilities. According to Krissy, he had yet to leave and it was bordering on midnight. Sam figured there wasn't a better way to spend his night than sitting under the stars and waiting his brother out of that damn tower.

A new journal based solely around the anatomy of an angel’s wings tucked under his arm, Sam met Castiel at the base of Krissy’s watchtower. The angel had been mostly ignored around the camp since he'd arrived. Hunters preferred to stay as far away as possible (save for Don who couldn't stop thanking him for healing his wound before) and their families generally followed their example. A few kids who were too young for Watch, and therefore had never seen an angel up close, flitted around Castiel with the same curiosity usually reserved for poisonous snakes. They didn't talk to him but they also weren't cruel or scared. Castiel seemed to enjoy the awed attention from the children, and he showed off for them when he was flexing his uninjured wing. Sam was pleased that he hadn't seemed uncomfortable when left alone. He might be slightly delirious with all the theorizing, but Sam sort of felt like Castiel could hang around even after they fixed Dean. If he wanted to. The angel was splayed out on the grass, legs and arms spread out wide as he stared up at the stars with a contemplative frown. At Sam’s arrival, he unfurled his left wing from his side, stretching it out to its full length and Sam was struck by the moonlight’s reflection on Castiel’s blue underfeathers. Instead of brightly proclaiming their existence like the sun did, the moon simply accentuated it and Castiel’s entire wing appeared a midnight hue. If Sam had been a better artist, he might've tried to capture the image in his journal. But as it were, his talent extending no farther than a stick version of the wing's skeletel structure, he settled instead to admire with smile.

Sam was just crouching beside Castiel to peer closer at the moonlight's effect on his feathers, when something large and dark flashed in his periphery. Hunter’s instincts had him reaching for the blade at his ankle, but Sam was shocked into falling on his ass by the sight of Castiel’s right wing. No cast, no bandaging, the feathery appendage was extending up into the sky, powerful and strong. Sam gawked openly, having never seen both of Castiel's wings in their full, healthy wingspan before. It was an odd feeling, he'd been so used to only seeing the right wing with pale, shivering feathers. Now, though, it caught the light in much the same way as the other, vibrant and breathtaking. “But it’s only been a few days, how did you heal so fast?”

Castiel bent his wing so that it's feathers stopped just short of brushing Sam’s nose and said, “Dr Amelia underestimated the strength behind my healing. When my grace is strong, a broken wing would take even less than a day to remend.” He sounded so smug and proud. Sam laughed, eyes wide at the healthy sheen to the feathers, puffing out in that way they did when Castiel was feeling showy.

“Wow,” he sighed and leaned back on his palms to get a better view (and keep himself from touching). “Can you fly again?”

“Almost,” Castiel said and pulled his wing back to extend completely, just like his left, across the dewy grass. If he noticed the feathers grazing Sam's hip, he didn't react. Sam would place his full span at somewhere just over twenty feet and he felt a certain giddy excitement at the possibility of seeing Castiel fly for real. That time with Krissy had only been the ghost of flight, pain lacing Castiel's face and injured wing shuddering, unstable. Sam couldn’t imagine the feeling of being grounded when you had the potential to kick off the ground and not come back down.

They sat in a comfortable silence, Sam’s eyes still rapt on the wings spread out before him, and Castiel’s gaze caught on the constellations above them. An unending supply of stationary points littering the night sky, every dot of light something significant faraway and out of anyone’s reach. Castiel inhaled slow and calm, his bare chest rising and falling in a lulling motion.

Eyes still reflecting the stars, Castiel murmured, “Sam?”

Sam had an inkling that Castiel always started conversations this way. It seemed he wouldn’t start a conversation unless he said Sam’s name first, some sort of reassurance that he had Sam's attention or that Sam wanted to hear him talk. Sam hardly ever verbally acknowledged Castiel’s gentle murmurs of his name anymore. He glanced over and Castiel knew he had without looking. “Did I ever tell you what it was like inside Dean’s soul?" His voice was a gently, as if he didn't want to break the silence. Sam furrowed his brow and shook his head lightly. Neither of them had said anything about Castiel's attempt at Purification on Dean. Half because the thought still made Sam's stomach clench, and half because it seemed like a subject Castiel didn't want to broach. Castiel breathed in deep. Sam could see the slow rise of his bare chest. "It was dark like a still lake," he began, tucking his hands under his head. "I was going through his soul like I always do. Saw his memories, everything that had made him who he was. And then I found your name." His blue eyes flickered to Sam's face and then back to the sky. "And his soul _illuminated._ It looked just like the sky does right now. Each star is a happy memory with Sammy.”

Sam’s chest tightened. He glanced up at the dark expanse over them, speckled with dull and bright lights. He fell backwards, carefully situating himself on his back so that he wouldn't touch Castiel's wing. He lay on the grass like the angel and tried to really see what he was seeing, the endless beauty of a human soul through an angel’s eyes. Not just any human’s soul, but Dean’s. Dean’s soul with Sammy wrapped up in it. The thought brought a heady wave of nostalgia and Sam was surprised to feel his eyes sting with the pinpricks of warmth. Maybe it was for the best Dean was keeping his distance, Sam probably would’ve hugged him hard enough to crush his lungs had he been sitting right beside them. The knot that had been building in Sam’s gut ever since Dean first slammed him against the side of the house eased somewhat as he watched the night sky and thought of his brother. He couldn't help but wonder if this had been Castiel's intention, with the talk of Dean's soul and the kiss to his forehead a couple days earlier.

“Do you dream, Sam?” Castiel asked and Sam tilted his head at the odd question.

“Sometimes. Most of them are strange, usually nightmares,” he said, folding his hands behind his head. Sam had been having nightmares for as long he could remember. It was something he figured came with the territory, fighting off bloodthirsty monsters and struggling for survival every day. He used to wake up screaming from them. Eventually, he became so numb to them all, just another facet of a hunter’s life.

Sam could hear the scuffle of Castiel nodding his head against the grass. “I’ve only dreamt once. When I lost consciousness, after I healed your shoulder.” Sam glanced at Castiel, skeptical.

“Never before that?”

Castiel hummed, eyes still fixed on the stars. “I think I was in a forest, surrounded by darkness. But there was this small flame far out of my reach. Bigger flames surrounded the small one from a distance, perhaps six of them. They were steadily progressing towards this small immobile flame. But the small flame was a different color from the ones around it, converging on it. It was pink with blue. I was watching these red and orange flames float closer and closer to this small one. When I looked down I realized I had a flame inside my chest too.”

The story struck that chord in the back of Sam’s head, some tiny alarm bell of familiarity. “What color was yours?”

Castiel opened his mouth, then shut it abruptly, face screwing up in a deepset scowl. Sam felt his wing flutter against his side, a sign he'd learned to equate with agitation. "Castiel?" The angel sat up in a flurry of feathers, hair sticking up every which way. “Sam. I know what’s happening with the angels. I know why they’re suddenly all attacking Salvage.” His blue eyes were blown wide in the dark and Sam sat up too.

“What?” It was more of an incredulous statement than a question.

“It’s Dean. Dean is attracting all of them here. I don’t know how I didn’t see this before. That dream I had was exactly what’s happening here. My flame was colored the same as the small one because the small one is Dean. We share pieces. He may not have my powers but he has some of my grace. And that,” Castiel was on his feet, wings flaring out in his excitement. “That is why his veins only alight when angels are near, Sam. My grace can sense them and reacts to them. Because I have some of Dean’s soul inside of me and he has some of myself in him, our colors were mixed. I think-” Castiel hesitated, running through all of his information a second time to be sure, and Sam had to resist the urge to punch it out of him as he scrambled to his feet.

“I think your brother’s soul is still open. An open human soul is a siren’s call to any angels in the area, they will flock to it in desperate need to take the rest for themselves. Like moths to a candlelight.”

Sam was absolutely silent, mind working to process this information. In the end it had all been Dean. His open soul was bringing all of these angels to camp and getting people hurt, getting people Purified. There was no way in hell that asshole wouldn’t take the fall for this if he found out. If Dean got so much as an inkling that he was attracting the angels, he’d leave camp to keep everyone else safe. He was a self-sacrificing idiot that way.

“But what about you? You’re an angel.” Sam thought to ask, before starting off in John and Bobby’s direction and waving the angel to keep pace. They needed to know about this and they needed to help him figure out the best course of action. Especially when it came to telling Dean or not. He had the right to know but he did not have the right to run out into the floodplains with a horde of soul-hungry angels chasing him down.

“Yes, but I already have a part of his soul inside of me. It’s enough to quell the urge but all of these other angels can’t resist an open soul that hasn’t been completely Saved,” Castiel explained, sticking to Sam's side, wings tucked in close to his back as they hurried back into the heart of Salvage.

Sam cast one more look over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of Dean twenty feet above in the tower. Or rather he caught the the orange light of his veins. Sam's throat constricted and he refrained from yelling at his brother to come down. But Sam didn't have any weapons and the sight only had Sam pumping his legs faster. Now that they knew what they were dealing with, Dean’s glow could only mean one thing: angels were coming. And the thing they wanted most was sitting at the edge of camp, unguarded.

Sam had barely enough time to pass the news about Dean onto John before the whole camp was awake on high alert. Krissy radioed in on four angels at the South exit and the hunters started swarming. It was the highest number of angels to attack the camp in one go as far as Sam could remember. Even Sam was grabbing his shotgun and high-tailing it out there with the rest.

It was chaotic, radio waves were crossing, walkies were picking up the wrong signal, communication was fucking up all over the place. Sam had a strong feeling that this was the reason behind Dean standing outside the wired fence with nothing but a t-shirt and a handgun. “What the hell is he doing?” he growled, pushing out past the gate with Castiel close beside. Two or three injured hunters were writhing on the ground, Krissy up in the tower, and the others hadn’t yet arrived on the scene. Dean’s veins were glowing bright and he was gesturing violently at hovering figures in the dark.

“Dean!” Sam shouted, but at the sound of his voice his brother glanced at him and then darted into the forest. “ _Dean!”_ Sam fired a few shots off, but the angels didn’t so much as look his way before they took off after Dean. Sam bolted right after them at a sprint. There was no way in hell he was letting his dumbass of a brother fight off four angels by himself. No matter how self-sacrificing he was feeling.

Tracking them was easy enough, four angels at once left a trampling effect the likes of which Sam had never even seen before. It was as if one giant monster had ambled through the trees, barrelling down its own path. The sound of rapid gunfire blasted through the quiet forest and Sam picked up his speed, his chest burning with a sharp ache from pushing himself farther than he could go. He only hoped the adrenaline kicked in before he got to Dean.

He came up on a clearing, nearly skidded into it, if not for Castiel’s fingers digging into his bicep and keeping him out of sight. The fourth angel had just collapsed to the dirt with the other three in a dull flash of light, a light that shined from the small hand of a red-headed angel. Sam froze at the giant white wings, elegant and unreal in person as they stretched out the length of the clearing. Anna was staring directly at Dean, who’d backed up against a tree trunk, his veins no longer lit. Her eyes were wide and disbelieving and she took a step towards him. Sam instinctively jerked forward, but Castiel's hand was iron around his arm.

“Dean?” she said, breathless and Sam heard despite her quiet tone as if the breeze picked up just to carry her whispers. Sam turned to stare at Castiel in confusion but the angel was riveted to the scene unfolding in front of them, gaze scrutinizing and intense. From what Sam had gathered an angel inhabited a human body and killed the human inside. But they took on the memories of the person the body had once been. Even if this angel Anna had picked up Dean from Anna Milton’s memories, she would have also remembered that Dean had been the one to shoot her full of holes too.

“Anna,” Dean tossed the name at her, gun still clutched in his right hand, as if he didn’t believe her act, refused to play into it. Anna took another step towards Dean and he held up the gun point blank, just a few feet from her chest. “Stop it, you’re not her. Anna died a long time ago and you’re the thing that did it to her,” Dean bit out the words but it left a bitter taste in Sam’s mouth.

Anna shook her head, both her hands up. “No, Dean, it’s me. I can’t believe I found you. I-”

“I shot Anna Milton in the head,” Dean cut in and the look on his face was void. Sam felt sick. “I shot her and killed her. You are not Anna Milton.”

“You didn’t kill me,” the angel started and Dean looked about ready to say something but she put on this megawatt smile, full of teeth. Sam thought of a predator. “You _saved_ me. When you shot this body, Dean, you killed the angel just as it Took, that instant right before I disintegrated completely. I was still in there. I was okay, just weak from almost being incinerated by an angel’s grace. Once what was left of me melded alright with what was left of the angel, I took full control of my body again and healed myself. It’s still me, Dean, I just have some new wings and a few new talents.”

Both Sam and Dean were speechless. It sounded so impossible. What were the odds of something so implausible occurring in the natural world on complete accident? Almost nothing. Sam cast a glance back at Castiel and saw his calculative stare. He wanted to ask if he had ever heard of such a thing, if he even thought it was possible, but he kept quiet. Dean spat on the ground and pushed himself upright. “That’s not possible,” he said, gun still trained on the angel. Anna shook her head.

“Why do you think I’ve been killing angels Dean? They ruined my life, they killed my family, they tried to kill me. They deserve to be wiped out and I’m the only one who can do it. A human with an angel’s grace is unstoppable,” Anna said and she held out her palm, lighting it up the way Castiel had done in Medical. It sparked bright for just a moment and then died out entirely. “You’re not glowing are you, Dean? Look at your skin, it’s clear. I’m human and you know angels make you light up,” Anna smiled, nodding at Dean as if he were a toddler just now coming to understand. “I can’t believe you’ve been at Salvage all this time, Dean.”

Sam could pinpoint the exact instant Dean started to believe her. His expression ticked downward just the slightest, to match his body that fell just a little more than before, relaxing. Dean was beginning to believe her. It was easy for him because Dean wanted to believe. He wanted so badly to rid himself of this guilt he'd carried around for years and years. Anna, the human angel, was serving up all that he wanted on a silver platter.

Dean lowered his gun and took a hesitant step closer to her. “You’ve been killing angels by yourself all this time?” he asked and incredulity warred with genuine pity, regret, and sorrow across Dean’s features and with an expression like that Sam couldn’t help but believe her too.

Anna nodded, solemn with an underlying current of hearty pride. “Yes and I’ve killed thousands of angels, saved a lot of good people too. From what I can tell Salvage has been having some pretty serious issues with angel control. If you want I could lend you a hand, help out, maybe even stay in camp a while.” The way she spoke was so different from Castiel it fed into her story about being an angel and a human. Castiel spoke without the colloquialisms, whereas Anna sounded like anyone else at Salvage.

Dean wiped a smudge of dirt from the side of his face, scratching caked blood out. “People weren’t exactly welcoming to the last angel we brought in. I don’t think they’d feel any better about two walking around camp. And,” his face darkened. "You put my people in comas, you could've killed them. We thought you were the reason all these angels are attacking us."

“But Dean you know what the cause is now don’t you? I’m innocent. Your friends would've killed me if I hadn't put them to sleep. The only thing I’ve done was help fight these things off of you,” Anna professed, her white wings pulling in close to her body. “I’m not a monster, I swear. I can help keep everyone safe.”

Sam was shaking his head from his cover in the foliage. Dean couldn't be stupid enough to bring her into camp. Even if she really did just want to help--there was just something about her that made the hairs on the back of Sam's neck stand on end. Dean had to sense it too. Beside him, Castiel's hand still burned a brand into his arm and reminded Sam that he'd been in this same position once before. Warring between bringing a potentially dangerous angel into camp and keeping Dean safe and alive. This was different though, Sam found himself thinking. Castiel wasn't Anna. Castiel didn't leave a bad taste in Sam's mouth, didn't stink of suspicion.

Dean was obviously having a similar internal struggle. His face screwed up, hands clenching tight around his gun. He bit his lip. “You can come to the gate,” he said finally, voice nothing but a growl. "I can guarantee no one will try to kill you. But that's as close as you get. Even if you really are Anna and not some psycho-bitch angel pretending, I can't trust you." He gestured in the direction of camp, towards Sam and Castiel, with a jerk of his head. Anna pursed her lips and nodded, wide eyes trained on Dean as if he were the only thing in the whole world.

Castiel quickly dragged Sam off towards camp, the furrow in his brow so deep Sam didn't struggle.

 

~

 

A white-winged angel killed their mom. Sam wasn't hardly suprised when John kept the gates locked tight and seasoned hunters on Watch, rifles trained on Anna's red head. Three days had slipped by without so much as a budge on their father's opinion regarding the angel. Dean upkept terse conversation with her outside the gates every few hours, unable to completely cut her off when she killed any angel that got any closer than a hundred feet to Salvage. She was protecting them, Sam gave her that. He still wasn't sure if she really was Anna Milton, but there was the matter of Dean's veins not glowing in her presence. Castiel didn't have much to say about whether such a thing was possible.

Sam had no idea what Dean talked to Anna about when he left the safety of their gates. Castiel occasionally reported tidbits of their conversations when he felt like dropping by Bobby's library. Sam had holed up there, spread out on the carpet, scanning all the dusty old books for anything even remotely relevant to the human soul. There were far more pressing matters than Anna hanging outside Salvage and slaughtering the angels for them. Dean’s open soul bringing every other angel within a few mile’s radius directly to camp was the priority. Although, through Castiel's own observations, it seemed Anna harbored an unhealthy hatred for the angels, despite technically being one. At least physically. She had no love for Castiel to say the least.

Castiel commented on her scathing looks when he came near and even the way she spoke of Sam when her and Dean talked. It seemed, according to Castiel, that she hated those who sympathized with angels and Sam (while not necessarily _sympathizing_ with them) was friends with Castiel. This put him at the top of her shitlist too, apparently. Due to the animosity between the Anna and himself, Castiel had left camp intermittently. It relieved the tension caused by two angels so close to camp, and allowed him to search for an answer to their problem without Anna looming. It also served well as his own brand of physical therapy for the formerly broken wing that still refused to fly.

Sam’s eyes crossed as he scanned the millionth crusty, molded book in Bobby’s endless supply of them, exhaustion finally settling in. There was still absolutely nothing on human souls, let alone "open" ones. Castiel had been gone for a day trying to come up with an answer among the other angels. Sam wasn’t expecting him back any time soon, so he nearly toppled over a pile of books when the angel suddenly threw the door open. His wings had to fold in tight to fit through Bobby’s narrow doorway and his scruffy hair was messier than usual, coat askew.

“Sam,” he said by way of greeting, stepping over messes of leather and pages to get to Sam’s side. It was made even more difficult by his humongous wings, brushing both walls even pulled in, but he somehow managed not to knock a single stack over. Sam chalked it up to some sort of supernatural sense, feathers fluttering overhead, as Castiel settled at his hip, wing extending around him to weave through yet more piles.

“How’s your search going? Better than mine I hope,” Sam said, plopping yet another unhelpful book into the useless stack to his left.

Castiel sighed, his other wing brushing against the ceiling of the room without difficulty. The library was so small compared to him. “I met one angel who said that he closed a human soul by killing it. Which seemed contradictory.” Sam flipped through the dusty pages of another thick tome, hardly in the mood to so much as acknowledge that.

“I guess that means you found nothing?”

“Other angels only suggested finishing the process and taking the rest of his soul. I had a feeling neither of these ideas would be of use to you,” Castiel explained, eyes on the design in the shabby rug underneath his bare feet. Sam was tempted to ask why he even bothered coming, but he refrained. He knew it was only frustration and general annoyance just begging to culminate into an outburst at an unsuspecting victim. Sam bit his cheek to keep himself in check. Castiel was the last person he wanted to get an attitude with. He dropped another useless book into the ever mounting pile of useless books. “There was one thing that seemed to come up often in my search.”

Sam refrained from tugging another book off the shelf and turned to face Castiel. “And what was that?” he prompted, rubbing the circles under his eyes in a vain attempt to make them stop puffing up.

“A name: Joshua. Many angels suggested I go to Joshua. But nobody seemed to know where he is,” Castiel explained, resting his head on his hands and staring forlornly at the dusty books. His wings drooped with his mood and Sam could feel the left one slope over his head and rest against his shoulder. He sighed, frustration eeking out of him with the heavy breath.

“Of course it’s a common name like Joshua, I’m sure there aren’t a million of those out in the world,” he muttered and hung his head. Unsurprisingly, his hair fell into his face, tickling his cheeks and adding to his already mounting irritation. He huffed like a petulant kid and shoved his hair out of his face with more force than strictly necessary. The both of them were at their wits end with absolutely no information to go off of except a name that could mean nothing. Sam had every right to curl up and groan about the complexity of life itself for a few hours.

He felt Castiel shift beside him and then fingers dragging across his scalp, hair being pulled back away from his face. Sam couldn’t help the instinctive lean into the touch, gentle fingers carding against his scalp. “Is it soft?” he asked, welcoming the distraction from his hopeless thoughts, as Castiel deftly wrapped a tie three times around Sam’s little tuft of hair. Sam had yet to learn the masterful art of tying his hair back. Every time he asked Castiel to teach him, the angle would simply do it for him instead. He once tried to get Jess to cough up the secrets when Castiel wasn't around, but she only laughed at him. After that, Castiel seemed to somehow obtain an endless supply of hair ties around his wrist and Sam could only suspect who his dealer was.

“Yes,” Castiel answered simply, settling back. His wing was still semi-wrapped around Sam back, resting against the bookcase behind him. Sam leant to the side and strategically brushed his cheek against the wing, the feathers tickling his skin. He felt them puff out, pressing into his face and grinned at Castiel’s narrowed eyed glare and the red tinting the bridge of his nose.

“Yours are soft too,” Sam said and chuckled at the memory of how embarrassed Castiel had gotten the first time he’d said it. He wasn’t at all prepared for the wing at his shoulder to smother against his face, like some sort of vengeful attacker. Castiel used his wing to push his whole body over until his cheek was to the floor and he was laughingly fighting the feathers off. When the black wing finally slid away, Castiel was peering over Sam with squinted eyes. He tilted his head and Sam could see his wings flex over him. His gaze softened just a little, comforting and gentle.

“Don’t worry Sam. We’ll keep looking,” he said.

And they did. And one of them found something.

 

~

 

Castiel spent his nights on the roof of the Winchester’s house. He liked to be above the ground as close to the sky as he could possibly get, especially on a night full of stars. Roofs were stable and Castiel enjoyed the comforting press of the shingles against his trench coat as he spread out his limbs and watched the constellations. It was merely an added bonus that Sam and Dean’s room was just below him so that he could easily access it in an emergency. Or even keep guard in case something felt like creeping through the window in the night.

As his eyes traced the shapes in the stars, assigning a memory in his life to each one the way it was in Dean’s soul, Castiel couldn’t help but wonder where he could go about finding a spare human soul. He didn’t understand why he hadn’t realized earlier that the specific Joshua would inevitably be the man who aided Castiel in being Borne into a body. The difficult area of the situation lie in the fact that Joshua never took a human body and locating his ethereal form was not easy.

Fortunately, Castiel had dreamt once before and closing his eyes to wake up in them was becoming an easier and easier thing for him to accomplish. It could be related to Dean’s piece of soul inside him. Either way, Castiel found Joshua simply enough and the wise angel told him what he needed. The real problem was procuring it in the first place.

A star shot across the sky, a streak of light that had Castiel’s eyes going big and then quickly closing to make a wish. He had heard from a few of the children around camp that was the custom and while Castiel didn’t believe it to actually hold power, it was comforting. He wished he had a human soul to borrow. There was no fixing Dean without one and there was no getting one without killing an innocent human. It was all too much for Castiel to decide on his own but he couldn’t tell Sam. He couldn’t force that kind of choice on Sam when he was fully aware of the how much the brothers would sacrifice for each other.

Castiel couldn’t let that be on Sam’s shoulders which meant it was his responsibility to find a solution that did not involve anyone losing their life. Castiel breathed in deep just to let out a heavy sigh, gaze following Orion across the dark sky. He should have wished that he could give Dean his piece of soul back. That would’ve solved the issue that Castiel had caused initially. But even if he wanted to, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to, Castiel couldn’t remove the piece of Dean and just give it back to him, patch it over his soul with some gauze and medical tape.

Souls taken from humans and souls given to humans are vastly different and not one in the same. Even attempting to put the pieces back would do more detriment to the remainder of Dean’s soul than good. Which brought Castiel back to his original predicament, finding a human soul.

The sky dulled with the onset of clouds and Castiel closed his eyes, pretending at the human idea of sleeping. He was just contemplating the merits of taking a soul right before death when a solid thud-thud had him cracking a blue open. The roof was slightly angled and Castiel scanned the area for the source, holding his breath to hear clearly. Initially nothing but the misty cool darkness surrounded him. Then a flash of red had Castiel in the air, slamming Anna into the roof shingles by her head. He pressed her cheek hard enough to grind her face against the rough texture.

Her wings flared out, desperately batting at his face, while her fingers clawed at his wrist. But Castiel had fought angels before-- _real_ angels--and held his own without difficulty. Compared to those powerful beings, those who were experts in harnessing their righteous abilities, this meek and human girl was pathetic and blind. Even if her pure white wings signified a higher ranking than Castiel’s own black.

“Get off of me and I might let you live,” Anna spat, grunting when Castiel pressed her face harder against the roofing. Castiel bent close to her ear, mindful of the sleeping Winchesters beneath them.

“Why are you here?” he asked and his voice rumbled in his throat, fingers digging purple bruises into her cheek.

“I’m gonna slit Sam Winchester’s throat. What does it look like?” Anna bit out through clenched teeth, struggling violently against Castiel’s hold, wings flapping viciously. If Castiel wished, he could tighten his hold enough to cave her skull in, sink his fingers into the matter of her brain, render it to mush in the bowl of her cranium. And all it would take would be one small squeeze. It would be agonizing and degrading, exactly what she deserved for daring to come to this house, daring to threaten Sam Winchester in Castiel’s presence as if he couldn’t protect the people around him.

Castiel frowned down at her, a white wing catching him in jaw. He caught the hollow bone in his other hand and bent as far as he knew it would without snapping in two. She whined against the roofing and her body trembled. “Why Sam?” he asked and his tone was free of emotion. When she didn’t reply immediately he eased the wing further until he could feel the hairline fracture in the humerus.

“Why not?” Anna said, smirk on her face but words that shook. “He's useless. He's not the one I want and he screws around with angels doesn’t he? Marked you up good-” her words broke off in a high pitched keen when he wrenched the wing in the opposite direction. It wasn’t a fracture but he only wanted to end the stupidity pouring out her mouth. “If you’re gonna kill me then do it already you disgusting animal.”

Castiel twisted her wing out of socket with a pop, her muffled whimpers buried into the roofing, and spoke into the curve of her ear. “If you come near Sam Winchester again I will kill you.” He released her and she vanished as quickly as she had arrived, kicking off into the dark. Her wing would still serve her well enough to fly but the pain would be excruciating and that was exactly what Castiel had intended.

He sat back down on the slight slope of the Winchester’s roof, somewhat at a loss as to the meaning behind Anna’s attack. Killing Sam would do her no benefit if her goal remained to gain entrance to the camp through permissions. Perhaps she had an entirely separate idea in mind that started with Sam’s death. Castiel sighed, falling back onto his haunches and looking up at the foggy sky. It wouldn’t matter one way or the other as Sam’s life was safe with Castiel around.

Anna posed little to no threat. With her watered down power, her severe naivete, and the humanity in her soul she stood no chance against an angel with strength, a being like Castiel. She believed her human soul was her strength but it would only serve to end her life and was therefore her greatest weakness.

The four finger shaped bruises that still decorated Castiel’s collarbone, a reminder of when Sam had held him down to fix his wing all those days ago. They were Anna’s superficial reasoning for attempting a threat on Sam’s life. Castiel could have healed them just as easily as he’d gotten them but he hadn’t. And now Anna was using it as evidence of something altogether different to justify murder. Castiel slid his hand under his trench coat and the bruises were gone.

He decided he wouldn’t tell the Winchesters about his encounter in the morning. Anna was not a threat so long as Castiel was there.

But the next day Dean went on his usual trip outside the gate and didn't come back. Anna was nowhere to be seen. Castiel knew that there was a correlation between what happened last night and Dean’s sudden disappearance. She had tried to kill Sam, failed, and then taken Dean with her. The question was if he had gone willingly or not. Sam had a right to know the truth about the angel his brother was currently with, otherwise he would not be suitably worried in this pressing situation. The only way for Sam to be positive that Anna was not to be believed was to tell him about the angel trying to sneak into his home and kill him in his sleep.

So he did.

“Sam, I need to talk to you,” Castiel said, swooping in through the small window in the smaller bedroom, his wings felt claustrophobic and he curled them as tightly as possible to his back. Sam was reorganizing the seemingly endless amount of journals he had on angels and didn’t look up from the text he was reading when he replied.

“I’m all ears,” he said and Castiel didn’t understand what that meant but it sounded amiable enough so he continued.

“Anna tried to kill you last night. Now Dean is missing and so is she. They both vanish without notice just after I stop her from slitting your throat? I find it hard to believe that is a coincidence,” Castiel said, succinct.

Sam was on his feet immediately just as Castiel knew he would be.

 

~

 

Sam mounted Dean’s bike outside the gate. “But why would she take Dean? And where?” He was mostly just wondering out loud as he strapped the shotgun on and slid the knives in place. Castiel, standing beside him, turned his gaze to the floodplains.

“Dean’s soul is open, Sam. He is bait for any weak angel in the area and Anna hates angels. She wants us extinct. I can think of no better way to commit an act of mass murder against my entire kind than to use bait,” he said and Sam grit his teeth. “Anna does still have humanity. Perhaps she has taken Dean to a place with an emotional tie?”

It couldn’t be too far from Salvage. With an injured wing thanks to Castiel, there was no way Anna could have carried or dragged Dean more than eighteen miles through the floodplains. As for where exactly she could have taken him, Sam’s knowledge ended at the woods in front of him. He couldn't imagine some special place Anna could take him, _if_ she had taken him. Castiel still was clear on that and Sam wasn't so sure if Dean wasn't reckless enough to just go with her and hunt down angels in some sort of mass genocide. The only thing that kept him from really entertaining the thought, was that he was almost positive Dean wouldn't just up and abandon him like that. It would also explain why Anna had tried to kill him. If Sam were dead, Dean might actually be dumb enough to willingly go with her on her insane suicide mission.

"If she's taking him someplace she knows then... maybe it could be where Dean dragged her body?" Sam said, more to himself than Castiel. He knew Dean had taken her body into the floodplains, but he had no idea where in the forest it could've been and he doubt it was even any special spot. Sam scrutinized the mental blueprint of the floodplains, closing his eyes and murmuring the landmarks for each mile under his breath. There was the fallen tree trunk, the giant boulder, the waterfall, the creek that led back into the less traveled area of the forest where Sam and Dean had found that old cabin when they were just kids. Sam froze.

Hadn't Dean brought her to a cabin? Was that what he'd said the night he slammed Sam into the wall? It sounded familiar and Sam knew just where it was. It was the only lead they had. It made sense, people avoided the shoddy old cabin with its dank walls and musty smell. If it had been Sam, he would’ve dragged a dead body to that cabin. He sat up straight and tucked his handgun into the back of his jeans. “I know where we’re going, Castiel,” he said and fired her up.

The floodplains had never passed in such a blur of greens and browns than it did in those sixteen minutes it took for Sam to bike the untraveled paths to the rotting cabin. Castiel had followed on foot just a few miles behind, his wing still not quite ready for flight. Knowing the angel would catch up, Sam went ahead and rested Dean’s bike against an oak trunk a good half a mile away from the cabin to keep their presence as unknown as relatively possible when a flying angel was involved.

He pulled out the blade in his side pocket to cut through the overgrown foliage, covering his path almost to the point where Sam was second guessing himself. Insects buzzed around his face and the sweat drenched him in mere minutes, hair sticking the nape of his neck and the bones of his cheeks. Sam took the trek as a chance to practice that hair-tying thing he’d been terrible at for better part of a week. He had one last band on his wrist and started running his fingers through his hair, knife in his teeth as he continued forward.

The hair was gathered at his nape just the way he’d felt Castiel do those times before and he gently pulled the elastic over it, twisting it slowly so as not to pop it. It was probably one of the most difficult tasks in Sam’s life as he hiked through wilderness trying to do something he couldn’t even do sitting down with help. He had a feeling it was because his damn fingers were too long and the tie wasn’t big enough, either it flew off his hand or broke completely.

By some miracle, Sam found the cabin before he even had his hair pulled back, but at least he was well on his way, looping the last bit of tie around his tuft of hair. He couldn’t even celebrate his small victory because just the slightest noise could send Anna running. From what Sam could gather at his distance about ten feet away, it was empty. He saw no movement in any of the broken windows, the door was completely ajar but he wasn’t at the right angle to see inside.

From memory he knew it was a one room cabin with nothing but a bed that had been bolted to the ground and a rotted chair. It looked so undisturbed from the last time he had seen it over ten years ago and his heart sank because what if he’d been wrong? What if he’d just dragged them all the way out to the middle of nowhere for absolutely nothing and Dean was long gone? Sam clenched his jaw and glanced behind for any sign of Castiel but he had yet to arrive.

Sam didn’t have the patience to wait for back up and see if his brother was even there. He knelt down into the tall, reedy grass that grew up to his hips all around the cabin, providing a perfect hiding place. Knife at the ready, Sam walked lightly, keeping his feet from sinking into the mud that surrounded him. The old hunting cabin was dilapidated, practically on the verge of caving in roof first. He was careful to keep low until he could press his fingertips to the rotted wood of the building's side and then darted to press his back to it. He inched around the edge to peer through the very corner of the shattered window.

It was dark in there, the little sunlight that might have been filtering through a hole in the ceiling, lit up a patch of black floor. Dimly, Sam could make out the furniture, the chair covered in webs and the small bed. On the bed Sam could just make out a faint outline of a body. Unless someone else had had the great idea of dumping a body out there, it had to be Dean. There was no redheaded angel that Sam could see or any sign she'd been hanging around. So he brandished his shotgun and used it to push open the rickety door, sagging off its hinges.

It silently swung inwards and the cabin illuminated with the dull gray light beaming in from behind Sam, his silhouette stark and black on the dust-thick floor. He pointed the shotgun in a semicircle from the doorway, scanning the entire one-room cabin with the cautious eyes of a hunter. Nothing moved. Not even the body on the bed. Once he was sure the room was secure, Sam rushed to the bedside, rolling the immobile person over to find its hands and feet bound.

Sam heaved a sigh at the sight of Dean falling onto his back, completely unconscious. No doubt Anna had knocked him out with some of her angel mojo. Now would be a really could time for the angel in shining armor to show up and wake up the fairy princess. Sam peered out the broken window and still no Castiel. He felt Dean’s strong pulse and slapped his cheek a few times just in case he only lost consciousness and wasn’t in some sort of angel-induced coma. “Dean, Dean, hey wake up,” he muttered, harsh whispers against his brother’s ear as he shook him. “Castiel!” His voice was louder this time, shit, had Castiel taken a damn detoura?

The sound of the door thudding against the wall had Sam sagging with relief, turning. He expected to see Castiel standing in the narrow doorway, trying to fit his wings through, but instead he saw red hair. Anna smiled, all white teeth and wide eyes. “Castiel isn’t here to protect you, Sam,” she said, and Sam raised the shotgun, cocking it and taking aim. He managed off one shot before she was on him. Her hand wound around the barrel of the gun and Sam felt it tear from his grip.

He stumbled backwards, his back hitting the wall and his hands fumbling for the machete at his hip. He’d just grabbed the hilt when Anna swung the shotgun and caught him right under the jaw, the force sending him careening to the right. A starburst of pain exploded at the point of contact as Sam collapsed to the floor, blood pooling in his mouth. He scrambled on elbows and knees to drag himself away from her, wondering just what the hell had happened to Castiel, as he slide the machete free from its holster. He turned around fast on his knees, aiming to get a swipe at Anna’s legs with the end of his blade, but instead he got a shotgun barrel right between the eyes.

Anna was smirking down at him, cocking the gun. “Sorry Sammy, we can’t all toe the line. You’re either a hunter like your brother and me, an angel-killer,” she smiled. “Or you’re not. You can’t say you didn’t see this coming, Sam. Sympathizing with an angel can only lead down one path.” Sam’s eyes were focused on the thin, pale finger curling around the trigger.

And then suddenly Anna was collapsing forward, eyes rolling back in her head. Sam dodged to the side and she hit the ground like a sack of flour, her wings falling waysides. Castiel lowered his raised hand, fingers still alight with power. Sam glanced over at Dean to be sure he hadn’t been injured in the fight, but he was just as unconscious and unharmed as before.

“Sam, the only way to close Dean’s soul is to patch it up with another human soul,” Castiel said solemnly as if he hadn’t wanted Sam to know that. Sam’s gut plummeted. What did that mean? They’d have to kill someone? Castiel must have seen the look on Sam’s face, because he cracked a weary smile.

“Fortunately for us, Anna’s human soul is intact inside the angel grace.”

Castiel crouched beside Anna, still breathing, and threw her onto her back. Her broken wing tucked under her side and Sam winced at the angle until he saw Castiel shove his hand _inside_ of her chest, his entire fist sinking deep with an ethereal glow. Sam stared with huge eyes as Anna’s head threw back in a noiseless scream her face crumpling in pain as her chest arched. “Sam I’m going to burn the angel out of the soul, but I can’t carry it. Only humans can. Bring Dean over here.”

Sam got to his feet, spitting blood at the ground and moving to drag his brother off the bed and onto the floor beside Anna who was writhing as if she was possessed, bright orange and red light shining out of her eye sockets, her mouth. Castiel’s face remained stoic. And then Anna’s body seemed to collapse, unmoving, head lolling to the side. “Come here,” Castiel said and Sam scrambled to his side staring down at the place where his wrist met Anna’s chest. “Slide your hand in beside mine.”

Sam tried to ignore the lurch in his stomach at the idea and he lined his right up arm up with Castiel’s, his chest pressing tight to the angel’s shoulder. His fingertips hit Anna’s flesh and he expected to feel some sort of give under, but it just went in as if Anna were no longer a physical being. Inside, his hand sparked with what felt like dull electrical currents, he could feel Castiel’s fingers brush his and then he was touching something that sent his system on fire. Every nerve ending lit up as if all of them had been simultaneously stimulated and his vision blacked out for a dizzying instant.

“That’s the soul, Sam, take it.”

“H-how?” he gasped hardly able to find his voice. He felt Castiel’s knuckles shift against his palm and then suddenly this force, this heavy and yet entirely weightless, thing was nestled in his hold. It felt as if it was cold enough to burn Sam’s skin away and he began to lift, eyes blurring.

“Take it out and push it into Dean’s chest. It’ll go right in.”

Dean’s veins lit up brighter than Sam had ever seen it, his body still completely comatose. The soul that surfaced with Sam’s hand was nothing more than blue wisps of light, fluctuations in fluid waves. He shifted on his knees until Dean’s chest was just below the bundle of soul and then he plunged it into the his brother’s chest. He fully expected it to dissipate every which way under the pressure of his hand, but it sunk beneath Dean’s ribs and vanished.

Just like when Castiel had woken Dean up, his brother’s eyes shot open--glow vanished--and he sat up gasping desperately as if resurfacing from the bottom of the ocean. He clutched at his chest, hands closing around Sam’s palm still resting there and he turned huge eyes on his brother. “What the hell, Sam?” he choked, voice trembling. Sam offered him a weak smile, the split in the skin of his lip tearing further with the movement and the swollen lump on his jaw aching.

“You’re whole again, Dean.”

Dean blinked hard and fought to sit up straight, eyes falling on Anna’s motionless body. “Is she dead?” he asked, rubbing his throat at how hoarse his voice was.

Anna was dead, more or less. Castiel said that she was essentially the same as a Purified human now in levels of cognitive function. John and a whole slew of hunters arrived at the cabin not much time after, thanks to Castiel’s radio in from Dean’s bike. While they worked to cart Anna’s body out for the tradition of sawing off the wings, Dean kept vigil at her side. Sam and Castiel sat on the floor of the cabin as people milled around them, getting Anna and keeping Dean steady.

Sam felt Castiel’s gaze and startled when two callused hands pressed to either side of his jaw, face inches from his own in nothing short of a blink. It felt exactly like the prelude to a Purification, hands tilted Sam’s head up and he had a flash of fear strike through his chest that he immediately felt guilty for. Castiel wasn’t going to hurt him, he knew, it had to be an instinctive thing. When he saw the faint glow beneath Castiel’s hands, his heart rate kicked up and his body was screaming at him to run to fight to yell. He fought down the urge with a tiny smile and saw Castiel’s wings flutter in that pleased way they did.

The swollen goose egg on Sam’s jaw faded away beneath Castiel’s palm, the torn skin of the inside of Sam’s cheek reknit. After it was done, Sam looked down to eye Castiel’s unchanging expression, stoic and calm, until those blue eyes darted downwards to where Sam’s mouth was slightly open. The split in his lip was still cut into his skin and Sam didn’t bother wondering why Castiel hadn’t healed it.

He didn’t even think about what he was doing, leaning down with the full intent of kissing Castiel. But just as his lips brushed the angel’s, he was suddenly thrown backwards. They both toppled over and now Castiel was hovering over him with narrowed eyes and wings so puffed out Sam thought he must have definitely offended him. Except then Castiel was grabbing his face and pressing his lips to Sam’s. He smiled into the kiss, relinquished full control over to the angel. Sam had completely forgotten about Castiel’s issue with physical dominance. That issue being that only Castiel was allowed to assert it. He was a great and powerful angel after all.

And when they parted Sam’s split lip was healed.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> here's my [tumblr](http://fedthreads.tumblr.com/) in case you wanna hmu I would love to hear from you!


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